1E          - 

;      K      W     W      K      «      K      W 

LIZABETH  PO'CONMOR 


Mrs.  "Tay  Pay"  on  Ireland;  Other  Books   \ 


s 


OME  are  born  Irish,  some  achieve  j  more  than  works  of  art.     The  volume 


Irishry,   and   some    have    Irishry 
thrust    upon    them.      Mrs.    T.    P. 
O'Connor  was  born  in  Texas,  but 
I  having    achieved    T.    P. — or,    possibly, 
having  had  him  thrust  upon  her — she 
i  visited  Ireland  after,  the  late,  unhappy 
rebellion,    and  remaining   there   for   a ! 
j  year   or   more,   felt   impelled   to   write 
}  "HERSELF— IRELAND,"  which  Dodd,  i 
IMead  &  Co.  publish. 

"I    have    lived    in    England    thirty 
years  and  admire  the  English,"  writes 
Mrs.  O'Connor.     "  I   had   not  lived   in 
Ireland  thirty  days  before  I  loved  the 
Irish.     England  appeals   to  the   head. 
Ireland  appeals  to  the  heart.    England 
is  good  for  the  body.     Ireland  is  good 
for  the  soul.     And  whatever  of  bitter- 
ness or  unforgivingness  toward  life   I 
brought  to  these  green  shores,  is  buried 
j  and  put  away  forever,  by  contact  with 
i  people  of  indestructible  Faith,  unselfish 
j  purpose,     and     not     only     brave — but 
j  cheerful  and  even   gay — endurance  of  j 
poverty." 

Mrs.  O'Connor  has,  indeed,  the  tone  j 
of  one  who  has  just  discovered  Ireland 
and  her  excursions  in  the  life   there, 
j  both    high    and    low,    her    adventures 

i  among  Ireland's  antiquities  and  litera- ; 
ture,  take  on  many  of  the  aspects  of  a 
new  story,  although  much  that  she 
I  tells  is  thrice  familiar.  A  happy  facul- 
ty of  anecdote  and  a  nice  memory 
j  for  witty  stories  lend  vivacity  to  a 
history  that  could  easily  be  too  sad. 
The  explanation  that  Mrs.  O'Connor 
gives  of  the  uprising  of  the  Volunteers 
is,  to  say  the  least,  intelligent.  Her  | 
sympathies,  while  they  have  not  car-  j 
ried  her  to  undue  lengths,  have  per- 
mitted her  to  condone  the  madness 
which  had  a  poetic  patriotism  behind 
its  seeming  disloyalty. 

Mrs.    O'Connor    has    endeavored     to  j 

write  a  book  which  shall  be  a  friendly 

•  guide  to  those  who  wish   to  acquaint 

i  themselves  with  what  is  finest  in  Ire-,' 

Iland.  both  in   the  way  of  the  antique  i 
and  the  modern.    This  applies  to  much  I 


is    illustrated    with 

architecture,  art,  and:  personages. 


HERSELF— IRELAND 


THE  FOUR  COURTS,  DUBLIN 

Designed  by  Cooley,  an  Irish  Architect   (Page 


HEESELF-IEELAND 


BY 

ELIZABETH  P.  O'CONNOR 

(MRS.  T.  P.  O'CONNOR) 
Author  of  "My  Beloved  South,"  "I  Myself,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1018,  BY 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


TO 
THE  PEOPLE  WHO  HAVE  LOVED  IRELAND 

TOO  WELL  TO  LEAVE  HER. 

AND  TO  THOSE  WHO,  STILL  LOVING  HER,  HAVE 

HELPED  MAKE  MY  COUNTRY  THE 

GREATEST  OF  REPUBLICS 


2061221 


AN  APOLOGY 

A  VERY  brilliant  Irishman,  Oscar  Wilde,  claimed 
to  be  a  seer  in  palmistry. 

Many  years  ago,  at  a  gay  little  gathering,  he 
offered  to  read  the  hand  of  any  guest  whose  char- 
acter could  stand  the  light  of  publicity. 

"  I  will  not  move  away  from  the  fire  and  tea," 
he  said,  "  and  go  into  a  dark  corner  to  screen  the 
iniquities  of  any  person  present;  but  in  this  magic 
circle,  in  the  full  light  of  the  lamp,  I  am  prepared 
to  reveal  in  classical  English  the  past,  present, 
and  future  of  a  daring  heart." 

His  eyes  danced  with  deviltry,  he  made  a  dra- 
matic gesture,  "  Lady  with  courage,  lend  me  your 
hand." 

I  immediately  laid  mine  open  upon  the  table. 
He  bent  his  head,  and  concentrated  his  attention 
on  the  many  divergent  lines. 

"  You  are  Irish?  " 

"  No,  there  is  not  a  drop  of  Irish  blood  in  my 
veins." 

"  Then,"  he  said  frowning,  "  there  is  no  excuse 
for  your  character." 

Much  laughter  followed,  and  more  when  he 
began  his  paradoxes. 

vii 


viii  AN  APOLOGY 

"You  are  religious,  and  you  have  no  religion. 
You  are  a  spendthrift,  and  you  save.  You  are 
amiable,  and  you  have  a  high  temper.  You  are 
passionate,  and  cold.  You  are  sympathetic,  and 
hard.  You  are  forgiving,  but  never  forgive. 
Therefore,  in  spite  of  the  American  Eagle,  and 
your  corporeal  body,  you  are  Irish." 

These  idle  words  spoken  in  jest  and  forgotten 
for  years,  have  been  a  whimsical  help  in  writing 
this  book.  For  at  least  I  have  felt  to-day,  as  on 
that  light-hearted  afternoon,  in  sympathy  with 
the  Irish. 

I  am  a  writer  of  necessity — not  of  talent. 
Therefore  this  book  will  not  bring  any  additional 
light  on  that  lively,  ever-recurrent,  and  absorbing 
topic  of  interest,  The  Irish  Question.  Nor  will 
it  contain  any  new  interpretation  of  the  political 
situation,  nor  any  erudite  or  important  informa- 
tion. Various  kindly  people  interested  in  my 
work,  have  questioned  me  as  to  its  character.  The 
first  asked  if  it  was  to  be  a  book  of  travel?  I 
said,  "  Not  altogether  that."  A  brother-in-arms 
with  a  methodical  mind,  enquired  if  I  intended 
dividing  it  into  Sections?  With  my  vagrant  wits, 
that  was  a  terribly  discouraging  question.  An- 
other questioner  asked  if  it  was  to  be  a  guide-book? 
That  too  lowered  my  courage,  and  when  the  lady 
persisted  in  a  definition  I  could  only  answer,  "  It's 
just  a  book."  But  notwithstanding  its  wants  and 


AN  APOLOGY  ix 

limitations,  it  is  written  with  honesty  of  purpose, 
and  a  keen  desire  to  arouse  in  my  reader — who, 
I  hope  will  be  as  ignorant  of  Ireland  as  I  was 
when  I  arrived  in  Dublin,  almost  a  year  ago  now 
— an  interest  in  the  country  which  has  proved  of 
such  absorbing  interest  to  me.  I  can  only  liken 
my  pages  to  an  hors  d'ceuvre  served  before  a 
banquet.  The  little  salted  fish  is  but  to  increase 
the  appetite  for  better  things  to  come.  Herself— 
Ireland  is  for  the  same  purpose,  a  slight  fillip 
to  the  feast  of  other  and  more  worthy  con- 
freres. 

I  am  not  a  politician.  Literature,  poetry,  art, 
music,  science,  friendship,  character,  all  make  their 
appeal,  but  politics  and  politicians  leave  me  cold. 
Until  I  came  to  Ireland,  The  Irish  Question  to 
me  was  a  closed  book,  although  I  have  heard  it 
discussed  for  years.  Now  my  opinions  are,  like 
the  Faith  of  the  people,  clear  and  definite.  It  is 
not  however  of  Irish  politics  I  have  written,  but 
of  Ireland  and  the  Irish,  who  in  many  ways 
resemble  my  own  race,  the  people  of  the 
South. 

I  have  lived  in  England  thirty  years,  and  admire 
the  English.  I  had  not  lived  in  Ireland  thirty 
days,  before  I  loved  the  Irish.  England  appeals 
to  the  head.  Ireland  appeals  to  the  heart.  Eng- 
land is  good  for  the  body.  Ireland  is  good  for 
the  soul.  And  whatever  of  bitterness  or  unfor- 


x  AN  APOLOGY 

givingness  towards  life  I  brought  to  these  green 
shores,  is  buried  and  put  away  for  ever,  by  con- 
tact with  people  of  indestructible  Faith,  unselfish 
purpose,  and  not  only  brave — but  cheerful,  and 
even  gay — endurance  of  poverty. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    WHY  I  WENT  TO  IRELAND      ....  1 

II    THE  REBELLION  OF  1916 21 

III  OLD  DUBLIN 54 

IV  DEAN  SWIFT 82 

V    HICKS,  A  MAN  WITHOUT  PRICE      ...  94 

VI    OLD    IRELAND,    AND    THE    LITTLE    WHITE 

FLOWER           112 

VII    IRISH  WIT 128 

VIII    THE  IRISH  TEMPERAMENT       .       .       .       .153 

IX    A  PERFORMING  Zoo 173 

X    THE  TREASURES  OF  IRELAND    ....  184 

XI    THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY 200 

XII    CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN 233 

XIII  KlLLARNEY 260 

XIV  LIMERICK 279 

XV    A  PLEASANT  TOUR 293 

XVI    GALWAY,  AN  OLD  CITY  OF  THE  WEST    .       .  328 

XVII    EVERGREEN  FRIENDSHIP 351 

XVIII      MlTCHELSTOWN    CASTLE    AND    AN    IRISH    RO- 

MANCE 367 

MY  IRISH  YEAR  .  388 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Four  Courts,  Dublin,  designed  by  Cooley,  an 

Irish  architect  (page  62)        .       .       .     Frontispiece 


PAQB 


Devenish  Round  Tower,  Lough  Erne         ...       10 
St.  John's,  Wellington  Place,  Clyde  Road,  Dublin  .       28 
"Kit"    (French  pochette)    or  dancing-master's  fid- 
dle.    By    Perry    of    Dublin.     Late    eighteenth 

century 42 

Portrait  of  an  Irish  Lady 66 

Peg  Woffington,  National  Gallery,  Dublin  ...      88 
The  Cross  of  Cong.     Made  for  Turlough  0 'Conor, 
King  of  Ireland  in  1123,  designed  as  a  shrine 
worthy  to  hold  a  piece  of  the  true  cross  .       .     100 
End  of  Saloon,  with  organ,  at  Carton,  the  Family 

Seat  of  the  Duke  of  Leinster       ....     118 
Loving  Cups,  Dublin  make,  1730,  1775       .       .       .136 

Miss  Kitty  Gunning 160 

Lion  Cubs  at  the  Dublin  Zoo 174 

"General"  and  "Captain"  are  as  well  trained  ele- 
phants as  the  usual  performing  animals  of  a 

circus 182 

Ceiling,   Wall  Panelling,   Doors,   Mantel-piece,   and 
Fire-grates  from  Tracton  House,  St.  Stephen's 
Green.    The  Ceiling  dated  1746  ....     186 
xiii 


xiv  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACIMO 

PAGE 


The  Tara  Brooch.    Made  about  700  A.D.  and  discov- 
ered in   1850  on   Strand  at   Bettystown   near 

Drogheda 194 

Gold  Lunula.    Found  in  1836  at  Barrisnoe  near  the 
eastern  side  of  Benduff  Mountain,    Tipperary 

County 194 

The  Piping  Boy.    By  Nathaniel  Hone  .       .       .     .     204 
The  Village  School.    By  Jan  Steen      .       .       .       .216 
Harpsichord,  mahogany  with  ornamental  brass  mount- 
ings.   By  Ferdinand  Weber,  Dublin.    The  prop- 
erty of  Robert  W.  Smythe,  Esq 240 

Scenes  in  the  Lake  Country  ......     268 

On  the  Road  to  Parknasilla 284 

In  the  Hotel  Garden,  Parknasilla 298 

Poisoned  Glen  and  Marble  Church,  Dunlewy,  Gwee- 

dore 310 

Island  where  a  Girl  lived  alone.    Lough  Gill,  Sligo  .     338 

Doneraile  Court 356 

Mitchelstown  Castle  .  374 


THE  WEST'S  ASLEEP 

When  all  beside  a  vigil  keep, 

The  West's  asleep,  the  West's  asleep. 

Alas!  and  well  may  Erin  weep 

When  Connaught  lies  in  slumber  deep. 

There  lake  and  plain  smile  fair  and  free, 

'Mid  rocks — their  guardian  chivalry. 

Sing,  oh!  let  man  learn  liberty 

From  crashing  wind  and  lashing  sea. 

That  chainless  wave  and  lovely  land 
Freedom  and  Nationhood  demand; 
Be  sure  the  great  God  never  planned 
For  slumbering  slaves  a  home  so  grand. 
And  long  a  brave  and  haughty  race 
Honoured  and  sentinell'd  the  place. 
Sing,  oh!  not  e'en  their  sons'  disgrace 
Can  quite  destroy  their  glory's  trace. 

For  often  in  O'Connor's  van 
To  triumph  dashed  each  Connaught  man, 
And  fleet  as  deer  the  Normans  ran 
Through  Curlieu's  Pass  and  Ardrahan. 
And  later  day  saw  deeds  as  brave, 
And  glory  guards  Clanricarde's  grave. 
Sing,  oh!  they  died  their  land  to  save 
At  Aughrim's  slopes  and  Shannon's  wave. 

And  if,  when  all  a  vigil  keep, 

The  West's  alseep,  the  West's  asleep — 

Alas !  and  well  may  Erin  weep 

That  Connaught  lies  in  slumber  deep. 

But  hark!  some  voice  like  thunder  spake. 

"The  West's  awake!  the  West's  awake!" 

We'll  watch  till  death  for  Erin's  sake— 

The  West's  awake!  the  West's  awake! 

— THOMAS  DAVIS. 


HERSELF— IRELAND 


CHAPTER  I 

WHY  I  WENT  TO  IRELAND 

It  is  not  day  yet 

(Old  Gaelic  Proverb) 

"WHY  do  you  go  to  Ireland?"  said  an  English 
friend.  "  The  country  is  under  Martial  Law, 
Dublin  is  in  ruins,  there  is  sure  to  be  another 
uprising,  and  you  will  probably  be  shot." 

"  Nobody  from  Texas  is  afraid  of  a  familiar 
little  thing  like  a  bullet,  and  nothing  can  be  so 
good  for  the  circulation  as  an  insurrection.  How 
the  exaltation  of  spirit  would  make  the  blood  race 
through  the  body.  I  shall  go  to  Ireland  the  day 
after  to-morrow." 

"  Is  it  necessary  to  select  this  particular  time? 
You  have  never  been  interested  in  Irish  politics." 

"  That's  just  it,  I  carry  with  me  a  nice  clean 
mind,  like  a  sheet  of  white  paper,  for  Imperialist, 
Nationalist,  Idealist  or  Sinn  Feiner  to  write  upon. 
The  spring  and  summer  are  before  me,  and  at 
this  moment  Ireland  is  the  most  interesting  coun- 
try in  Europe.  Men  who  were  alive  and  loved  life, 
loved  Ireland  more,  and  have  just  died  for  her." 

"  Once  a  rebel,  always  a  rebel,"  said  my  friend. 

i 


2  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"  You  were  obliged  to  have  Martial  Law  in 
your  own  country,  you  know  something  about 
it." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  and  as  long  as  the  South  was 
under  military  discipline  she  never  raised  her  de- 
spairing head;  it  was  a  hopeless  chaotic  country 
until  the  reins  of  government  were  in  her  own 
hands  again." 

"Then  you  are  already  a  Home  Ruler?" 

"  I  can  better  tell  you  what  I  am,  after  I  have 
lived  in  Ireland." 

"  I'll  forgive  you  Home  Rule,"  said  my  friend, 
"  but  I  draw  the  line  at  a  Sinn  Feiner." 

"  Lines,"  I  said,  "  are  elastic,  and  are  deter- 
mined by  time  and  point  of  view.  A  rebel  of 
1916  may  be  a  hero  in  2016.  In  1836  a  young 
uncle  of  mine  who  had  just  taken  his  degree  at 
Bardstown — the  college  where  Louis  Phillipe  was 
a  professor,  when  they  were  after  his  head  in 
France,  even  Monarchs  are  sometimes  rebels — 
raised  a  regiment  of  soldiers,  the  flower  of 
Kentucky  manhood,  and  marched  into  Texas  to 
capture  it  from  the  Mexicans.  These  young 
Southerners  fought  with  desperate  bravery,  but 
were  taken  prisoners  by  the  Mexicans,  and  shot. 
Mexico  regarded  them  as  traitors,  and  even  the 
young  United  States  thought  them  foolhardy 
visionaries.  But  they  started  the  ball  rolling, 
eventually  Texas  was  wrested  from  the  Mexicans, 


WHY  I  WENT  TO  IRELAND          3 

became  a  Republic,  later  a  State;  and  to-day  a 
granite  monument  of  imposing  dimensions,  stands 
in  front  of  the  Capitol,  to  record  the  daring  of 
Captian  Burr  Duval  and  his  brave  followers.  The 
youth  of  Texas  only  know  these  men  as  heroes,  not 
as  rebels.  So  who  can  tell  how  history  may,  after 
a  century  or  two  have  passed,  regard  the  uprising 
in  Ireland? " 

"  You  say  you  are  not  a  politician,"  said  my 
friend,  "  but  that  does  not  modify  your  convictions. 
I  am  sure  you  think  you  could  have  averted  this 
war." 

"  Anybody  could  prevent  war,  who  had  power  to 
send  the  King,  the  Privy  Council,  the  House  of 
Commons,  the  Cabinet,  the  House  of  Lords,  the 
members  of  the  Government,  and  all  editors  and 
journalists,  to  open  the  campaign.  After  three 
months'  dignified,  ponderous,  middle-aged,  and 
decorous  fighting,  the  Army  and  Navy  could  then 
be  called  upon  to  join  the  fray." 

"  And  in  your  native  land, — what  would  you 
do  there? " 

"  The  President,"  I  said,  "  the  Cabinet,  the  Sen- 
ate and  House,  the  Judges  of  the  Supreme  Court, 
and  all  fire-eating  editors  and  journalists,  should 
bare  patriotic  breasts  to  the  enemy,  before  rein- 
forcements came  from  the  Army." 

"  Your  theories  are  too  altruistic  for  adoption, 
but  if  you  really  intend  going  to  Ireland,  I'll 


4  HERSELF— IRELAND 

drive  you  to  the  station,  and  you  can  make  ar- 
rangements for  your  journey.  Have  you  got  a 
fur  coat?  If  not  I'll  lend  you  mine." 

"  Even  if  I  come  back  a  Sinn  Feiner? " 

"  Yes,  if  you'll  only  come  back;  you  see  I  can 
talk  to  you,  as  if  we  both  lived  in  a  palace  of 
truth.  You  are  a  fool,  but  not  a  vain  fool." 

When  without  misunderstanding,  two  women 
can  call  each  other  fools  and  liars,  their  house  of 
friendship  is  built  upon  a  rock. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  go  to  Ireland,"  said  my 
confidante  and  comfort,  Rose,  "  but  of  course  I'll 
pack  for  you.  Will  you  need  clothes  for  a  short 
or  a  long  time?  " 

"  That,"  I  said,  "  is  on  the  knees  of  the  gods.  A 
week  will  be  long  enough  if  I'm  disappointed,  if 
not  I'll  stay  six  months,  or  perhaps  for  ever,  who 
knows,  so  there  must  be  separations  in  my  ward- 
robe, winter  garments  somewhere  out  of  reach, 
a  summer  outfit  for  the  later  months,  and  spring 
garments  to  hand." 

"  It  reminds  me,"  said  Rose,  "  of  the  good  old 
days  at  Oakley  Lodge,  when  Cook  went  up  to 
you  for  orders,  and  asked,  '  How  many  to  dinner, 
Madam  ? '  And  you  said,  '  Ellen,  I  don't  know 
if  I'll  be  alone,  or  if  there  will  be  fourteen  to 
dine.'  " 

"When  I  kept  house  I  wasn't  so  bad  as  that, 
Rose.  It  sounds  like  me,  but  Ellen  must  have 


WHY  I  WENT  TO  IRELAND          5 

had  a  sense  of  character,  and  invented  the  con- 
versation." 

"  No,  she  did  not,  Madam;  it  was  what  you  told 
her;  for  seven  came,  Ellen  said  it  was  a  tempta- 
tion to  teach  you  a  lesson,  but  she  relented;  for 
she  really  liked  dinner  parties.  We  all  did." 

Being  equal  to  any  emergency,  Rose  packed  for 
the  week,  or  the  year,  waked  me  in  time  for  the 
early  train,  and  I  crossed  by  day  to  Dublin.  I 
had  been  up  late  the  night  before,  was  tired  and 
depressed,  but  when  I  set  foot  on  Irish  soil,  a 
word  of  sympathy  cheered  me  in  the  greeting  of 
old  Davy  Stevens,  the  elderly  newsboy  of  Kings- 
town, who  observed  my  weary  eyes,  and  said: 

"  Buy  a  picture  paper  Lady  avick,  then  you 
won't  have  to  read." 

One  of  the  most  striking  qualities  of  the  Irish 
is  perception.  They  divine  your  mental  and 
physical  condition  by  intuition,  and  even  the 
lower  classes  have  singularly  good  manners. 
With  tradition  behind  them,  manners  are  to  them 
an  instinct,  for  no  matter  how  humble  in  occupa- 
tion an  O'Brien,  or  an  O'Donohue,  or  an  O'Grady 
may  be,  he  is  the  kinsman  of  a  one-time  King 
or  Prince.  I  know  working  people  in  Dublin, 
who  washed — yes,  I  must  acknowledge  they  would 
have  to  be  washed — and  suitably  dressed,  could 
pass  muster  in  any  society.  I  have  met  an  Irish- 
woman married  to  an  English  gentleman,  who 


6  HERSELF— IRELAND 

began  life  as  a  furniture  polisher.  She  is  romanti- 
cally pretty,  and  not  only  are  her  manners  good, 
but  she  is  serenely  at  ease,  and  is  as  cultivated 
and  agreeable,  as  any  woman  of  my  acquaintance. 
Pretentiousness  is  vulgar.  The  lower  classes  in 
Ireland  are  never  pretentious.  But  I  regret  to 
say,  when  they  emigrate  to  America,  they  take  on 
the  worst  features  of  the  pushing  polygot  Ameri- 
can. There,  they  too  often  exchange  simplicity 
for  self-assurance,  and  modesty  for  braggadocio, 
and  the  Irish  Yankee  who  returns  to  his  native 
country  is  seldom  popular,  with  either  priest  or 
people. 

On  my  arrival  in  Dublin,  I  went  to  the  Shel- 
bourne  Hotel,  where  it  is  said,  if  you  stay  long 
enough,  as  in  London  and  Paris,  you  will  meet 
every  one  you  know.  English  people  come  to 
Dublin,  for  the  Horse  Show,  for  the  races,  for 
the  hunting, — they  come  for  a  thousand  reasons, — 
but  they  come.  And  sooner  or  later  at  lunch  or 
dinner,  you  meet  your  friends  at  the  Shelbourne. 

Putting  aside  any  interest  one  may  have  in  Ire- 
land, the  Hotel  is  an  exceptionally  comfortable 
and  satisfactory  place  of  abode.  In  the  first  place, 
there  is  hot  water.  Not  warm  water.  But  boiling 
water,  like  the  natural  geysers  of  Australia.  You 
can  take  a  cure  by  drinking  it,  and  you  can  have 
an  enlivening  bath  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  of 
the  night.  And  such  water!  As  soft  and  tender 


WHY  I  WENT  TO  IRELAND         7 

as  the  down  on  a  newly  hatched  chicken's  breast. 
A  little  soap  goes  a  long  way  in  this  pale  blue 
limpid  fluid.  Hair  after  being  washed  is  satin- 
smooth  to  the  touch,  and  the  lustrous  Irish  poplin, 
and  the  excellent  stout  and  whiskey,  are  said  to 
owe  their  renown  to  Dublin  water.  The  Shel- 
bourne's  other  pleasant  qualities,  perceptible  to 
sensitive  olfactories,  are  an  agreeable  odour  of 
good  scrubbing  soap,  Ice  polish,  and  clean  linen. 
Generously  proportioned,  well-furnished  bed- 
rooms. Adequate  and  willing  service.  Constant 
attention  at  the  telephone.  A  good  table  of  elastic 
hours.  A  lounge  large  enough — no  matter  how 
fully  peopled — to  ensure  a  quiet  corner  with  a 
friend,  and  an  atmosphere  withal  of  interest 
and  friendly  kindness.  What  more  can  be  wanted, 
or  asked  for  in  any  Inn?  If  I  could  always  be 
sure  of  the  same  measure  of  comfort,  I  would  start 
to-morrow  on  a  journey  around  the  world. 

The  few  people  I  knew  in  Dublin  happened  to 
be  away,  and  I  should  have  felt  lonely,  the  early 
days  of  my  arrival,  but  for  a  friend.  While  un- 
packing I  heard  a  coo-oo,  coo-oo,  and  looking  up 
found  at  the  corner  of  my  window,  a  pair  of 
bright,  curious  eyes  observing  my  movements. 
They  belonged  to  a  wine-coloured  pigeon,  of  lib- 
eral dimensions.  Without  movement,  he  sat 
watching  me  place  pincushion,  comb,  hairbrush, 
nail  scissors,  cold  cream,  and  polisher  on  the 


8  HERSELF— IRELAND 

dressing-table,  but  stretched  his  wings  if  I  got 
too  near.  When  I  retired,  he  folded  them  close 
to  his  plump  body,  and  coo-cooed  with  renewed 
confidence,  indicating  that  he  had  appreciated  my 
tact.  After  tea,  when  I  returned  to  my  room,  it 
was  not  long  before  he  flew  to  the  outer  ledge  to 
eat  the  crumbs  I  had  brought  him.  The  next 
morning  I  found  a  corn  chandler,  and  bought  a 
bag  of  maize.  This  thoughtful  hospitality  on  my 
part,  sealed  our  fellowship.  Very  soon  he  occu- 
pied the  centre  of  the  window-sill,  and  one  day 
after  a  profound  examination  of  me,  with  a  trust- 
ing baritone  coo,  he  proudly  promenaded  the 
dressing-table,  leaving  little  muddy  tracks  on  the 
toilet-cover. 

"Glory  be  to  God!  I'll  show  him  the  windy, 
I  will  that,"  said  my  chambermaid,  "  traipsin'  over 
the  clane  linen,  like  a  Christian,  an'  lavin'  black 
tracks  all  up  and  down — and  him  with  heels  like 
a  jay-bird." 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  please  don't  show  him  either 
the  window  or  the  door.  I  want  him  encouraged 
to  come;  not  to  go." 

And  I  made  one  other  friend.  A  ten  o'clock 
duck. — He  lived  on  the  pond  in  Stephen's  Green. 
At  the  last  stroke  of  the  clock,  I  am  sure  he  looked 
up  at  my  window  and  quacked,  "  Go  to  bed !  Go 
to  bed!"  After  a  few  ten  o'clocks,  I  walked 
over  to  the  Green,  found  the  little  lake,  and  as  the 


WHY  I  WENT  TO  IRELAND         9 

ducks  swam  towards  me,  I  recognised  my  portly 
friend's  quacks.  His  enunciation  was  better  than 
the  others'.  He  was  quicker  to  discern  food,  and 
his  appetite  was  very  sound. 

I  have  an  affection  for  ducks.  They  are  more 
benign  than  chickens,  more  trustful,  and  they  have 
less  idle  curiosity. 

Every  night  I  listened  at  ten  o'clock,  for  that 
penetrating  quack,  and  he  never  failed  me.  And 
every  morning,  during  my  six  weeks'  stay,  my 
wine-coloured  pigeon  woke  me  with  his  deep- 
throated  note.  I  travelled  about  Ireland  during 
the  summer,  and  returned  to  Dublin  in  Sep- 
tember. My  chambermaid  said: 

"Ye  couldn't  have  belaved  how  that  bird  car- 
ried on,  whin  you  went  away.  He  was  here  the 
whole  day,  peerin'  in  the  room,  an'  if  I  opened  the 
door  sudden,  he'd  be  sittin'  on  the  dressin'-table, 
lukin'  at  himself,  an'  as  plain  as  annything,  he 
axed  me  where  you  were."  But  he  never  came 
back  during  my  second  visit,  and  a  little  wine- 
coloured  feather  is  all  that  I  have  of  our  friendship. 

There  are  certain  cities  where  one  can  be 
alone,  and  others  where  loneliness  is  unbearable. 
New  York,  for  instance.  There  life  assumes  a 
ruthless  and  belligerent  aspect,  intimidating  to 
the  strongest  spirit.  London  is  too  vast,  and 
grey,  sombre,  and  indifferent,  to  endure  solitari- 
ness. Belfast  is  uninteresting  enough  to  create 


10  HERSELF— IRELAND 

restlessness.  But  Washington,  where  one  can 
spend  weeks,  among  the  treasures  of  the  Capitol, 
or  Florence,  where  the  architecture  is  of  unfor- 
gettable beauty,  or  Madrid,  sitting  for  hours  be- 
fore the  immortal  work  of  the  great  Masters — 
making  them  one's  own  in  memory — or  New 
Orleans,  caressed  by  the  softly  perfumed  air  of 
the  South,  and  surrounded  by  the  past  glories  of 
old  France,  or  Dublin,  which  possesses  a  charm 
peculiar  to  itself,  in  all  these  cities,  of  a  friendly 
size  and  atmosphere,  loneliness  is  not  only  pos- 
sible, but  even  restful  and  agreeable. 

I  like  to  wander  alone,  in  the  streets  of  a  strange 
town,  to  loiter  before  the  shop-windows,  and  look 
at  old  pictures,  old  silver,  old  fans,  or  old  china. 
A  collector  of  old  jewelry  placed  a  whole  heap 
of  antiquated  rings  before  me;  they  included  one 
or  two  specimens  of  Claddagh  marriage  rings,  and 
engraved  in  the  thin  gold  circles  I  found  these 
different  love  phrases: 

"  In  thee  I  find  content  of  mind." 
"  Let  love  abide,  till  death  divide." 
"  God  for  me  appointed  thee." 
"  Love  fixt  on  virtue  lasteth." 
"  My  love  and  I,  till  death  divide." 
Walking  along  Lower  Leeson   Street   in  the 
early  morning,  I  noticed  a  child,  with  the  bluest 
eyes  that  eyes  can  endure,  and  although  he  was 
not  more  than  four  or  five  years  old,  some  phase 


WHY  I  WENT  TO  IRELAND       11 

of  life  seemed  already  to  have  made  an  impres- 
sion upon  him. 

"  What  is  that  pretty  badge  you  are  wearing  on 
your  innocent  breast?"  I  asked,  pointing  to  a 
round  disc  of  green,  white,  and  yellow. 

He  straightened  his  sturdy  little  figure,  swelled 
out  his  small  chest,  and  said,  "  The  colours  of  the 
Irish  Republic,  Sorr — Mam,"  he  corrected,  and 
there  was  the  steady  light  of  battle  in  his  eye, 
which  I  quelled  with  a  bag  of  chocolates. 

"  Now  kiss  me  good-bye,  Sinn  Feiner  of  the 
eyes  so  blue,"  I  said.  "  Go  to  America,  and  be 
good."  And  we  parted  to  meet  no  more. 

One  afternoon  in  Grafton  Street,  while  in  a 
shop  giving  directions  about  the  repairs  of  a  silver 
box,  two  young  ladies  came  in,  stood  by  my  side, 
and  asked  to  see  rings.  The  clerk  who  served 
me  said  in  an  undertone: 

"  That  is  Mrs.  Plunkett,  the  young  widow  who 
married  her  husband  during  the  rebellion,  just 
before  he  was  shot,  and  a  friend  who  is  constantly 
with  her." 

As  they  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 
left,  it  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  observing  them. 
Mrs.  Plunkett  wore  no  mourning  except  a  broad 
band  of  black  on  her  white  hat,  and  on  the  sleeve 
of  her  coat.  Her  dress  was  of  emerald-green 
tweed.  Her  face  was  pale,  the  wide-open  blue 
eyes  observed  what  passed  before  them  with  quiet 


12  HERSELF— IRELAND 

indifference,  and  never  have  I  seen  a  jewel  selected 
so  quickly. 

"  Are  the  diamonds  good? "  the  dark  young  girl 
asked. 

The  salesman  said,  "  Yes,  all  these  rings  are  of 
the  best  quality." 

"  I  will  take  this  one.  Send  me  the  bill,"  said 
the  dark-eyed  girl,  and  with  that  brief  direction, 
these  interesting  ladies  departed.  It  seemed  to  me 
a  tragedy  lurked  in  the  background  of  that 
sparkling  circle.  Perhaps  it  was  purchased  by 
his  fiancee,  at  the  request  of  one  of  the  Insurrec- 
tionists, before  being  deported. 

Mrs.  Plunkett  had  expressed  no  opinion  about 
the  ring.  And  I  thought  of  the  difference  there 
would  have  been  in  my  own  happy  land,  if  two 
American  girls  had  entered  Tiffany's  on  a  like 
errand.  Tray  after  tray  of  rings  would  have  been 
brought  forward,  dozens  of  them  tried  on,  and 
flashed  in  the  light  with  breathless  exclamations 
of: 

"  Oh,  Mary,  don't  you  just  love  rubies ! " 

"  My  dear,  look  at  this,  it's  a  perfect 
vision! " 

Eventually  half-a-dozen  rings  would  have  been 
ordered  home  for  "  Poppa  "  to  see,  and  with  not  a 
care  in  the  world,  the  lively  pair  would  have  flut- 
tered out  of  the  shop,  and  stepped  briskly  forth  on 
Fifth  Avenue.  I  can  scarcely  believe  that  I  saw 


WHY  I  WENT  TO  IRELAND       13 

such  an  important  thing  as  a  diamond  ring  bought 
in  two  minutes,  but  then  strange  things  happen  in 
Ireland. 

The  very  first  of  my  serious  sight-seeing  was  to 
view  the  mail-clad  figure  of  Strongbow  the  Dane, 
in  Christ  Church,  where  in  one  of  the  vaults  St. 
Patrick  said  the  first  Mass  in  Ireland.  The 
ancient  warrior  has  very  tender  associations  for 
me,  for  as  soon  as  my  son,  Francis  Howard,  could 
draw,  he  pictured  Strongbow.  How  many  times 
have  I  regretted  his  noble  proportions  on  my  best 
notepaper.  Sometimes  he  was  surrounded  by  his 
military  monks,  the  Knights  Templar,  sometimes 
he  was  alone,  and  occasionally  he  divided  honours 
with  Rufus  and  his  spider.  I  paused  before  the 
beautiful  Norman  door,  and  the  exquisite  interior 
of  the  Church  delighted  me,  but  my  coign  of 
vantage  was  the  tomb  bearing  the  recumbent 
figure  of  a  Knight  in  chain  armour.  By  his  side 
is  a  smaller  tomb,  with  a  half-length  figure  of  his 
son,  whom  he  slashed  in  twain  for  cowardice  in 
battle.  I  suppose  that  is  why  there  is  only  half 
a  son  lying  by  him.  Spartanism  is  admirable  in 
heroes,  but  not  in  fathers;  the  tie  of  blood  should 
temper  it  with  mercy. 

The  monument  of  the  nineteenth  Earl  of 
Kildare,  the  father  of  the  first  Duke  of  Leinster, 
is  quite  beautiful,  and  there  are  two  chapels  of 
consideration,  one  of  St.  Lorcan,  the  Abbot  of 


14  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Glendalough,  the  second  saint  canonised  in  Rome 
after  St.  Malachy,  and  the  Lady  Chapel,  which 
was  the  original  chapel  of  St.  Nicholas.  The  red 
Cork  marble,  the  green  Galway  marble,  and  the 
black  Kilkenny  marble,  have  all  been  used  to  great 
advantage  in  the  building  of  the  pulpit.  These 
various  stones,  with  their  warmth  of  colour,  in- 
cluding Irish  blue  marble,  are  quite  as  valuable 
for  decoration,  as  any  of  the  Italian  marbles,  and 
architects  might  well  make  use  of  them,  both  in 
England  and  in  America.  The  crypt  is  not  only  in- 
teresting to  the  antiquary — from  various  evidence, 
it  is  proved  a  Danish  built  Christian  church — 
but  the  wooden  stocks  and  quaint  candlesticks, 
used  in  the  celebration  of  Mass  during  the  reign  of 
James  II,  the  silver  gilt  Dutch  plate,  presented 
to  the  Cathedral  by  William  III  are  objects  which 
would  be  appreciated  by  the  most  casual  observer. 
I  should  like  also  to  see  a  reproduction  of  the 
royal  palace,  built  of  peeled  wands,  in  which 
Henry  II  lived  just  outside  Dublin.  It  must  have 
been  of  the  same  character  as  the  picturesque 
cabins,  built  of  wattles,  and  so  poetically  appre- 
ciated by  Yeats. 

"  I  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisf ree, 
And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and  wattles  made : 
Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for  the  honey 

bee, 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 


WHY  I  WENT  TO  IRELAND        15 

"  And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace   comes 

dropping  slow, 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning  to  where  the 

cricket  sings ; 

There  midnight's  all  a  glimmer,  and  noon  a  purple  glow, 
And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 

"  I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always  night  and  day, 
I  hear  lake  water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by  the  shore ; 
While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pavement  gray, 
I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core." 

Henry  II  may  have  had  nine  bean  rows  and  a 
hive  for  honey  bees,  but  peace  is  not  for  Kings. 
He  was  obliged  to  leave  his  castle  of  peeled  wands 
and  return  to  England.  John,  his  son,  who  was 
made  Lord  of  Ireland,  was  never  popular  in  the 
country,  what  a  pity  the  fine  title  was  allowed  to 
lapse!  Perhaps  one  day  if  Ireland  should  find 
favour  in  Royal  eyes,  a  Lord  of  Ireland  may 
reign  again  in  the  Emerald  Isle. 

My  sight-seeing,  which  in  a  city  of  so  many  in- 
terests can  never  end,  began  to  be  intermittent, 
as  friends  came  and  went  from  the  Hotel.  The 
Insurrection  had  been  over  for  some  weeks,  but 
every  one,  especially  those  who  had  seen  it,  been 
thrilled  and  terrified  and  inconvenienced  by  it,  still 
talked  of  nothing  else.  The  Government  was  held 
responsible  by  some,  John  Redmond,  the  Leader 
of  the  Irish  Party,  by  others;  and  even  his  fol- 
lowers, particularly  the  young  men,  felt  that  at  the 


16  HERSELF— IRELAND 

beginning  of  the  War,  by  too  great  impulsive 
generosity,  he  had  thrown  his  own  great  chance 
and  that  of  Ireland  to  the  winds.  A  young  Irish 
gentleman,  the  son  of  a  Unionist,  but  himself  a 
believer  in  Home  Rule,  with  no  ambition  for 
political  place,  only  a  burning  desire  for  the  wel- 
fare of  his  country,  said  to  me: 

"  John  Redmond  missed  his  opportunity  at  the 
beginning  of  the  War.  Instead  of  pledging  Ire- 
land to  England  in  a  very  fine  and  dramatic 
speech,  and  offering  them  Irish  soldiers,  he  should 
have  demanded  Home  Rule  in  exchange  for  Irish 
Regiments.  He  should  have  demanded  Ireland's 
freedom  for  the  lives  of  her  sons.  There  might 
have  been  hot  controversy  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, but,  eventually,  he  would  have  got  Home 
Rule.  England  has  always  understood  better 
than  any  other  nation  barter  and  exchange.  She 
also  understands  a  gun  as  well,  or  better,  than 
any  other  country.  Was  it  Mr.  Dooley  who  told 
Mr.  Hennessy  that  when  John  Bull  was  at  din- 
ner, the  butler  interrupted  him  and  said: 

"  *  There's  a  man  outside,  who  wants  to  see  you, 
with  a  grievance/ 

"'Tell  him  to  go  away/  said  John  Bull,  'I 
don't  want  to  see  a  man  with  a  grievance.' 

"  In  a  short  time  the  butler  returned  and  said : 

"  *  The  man  with  the  grievance  is  back  again. 
This  time  he  has  got  a  gun.' 


WHY  I  WENT  TO  IRELAND        17 

"  '  Has  he? '  said  John  Bull;  '  then  show  him  in, 
and  we'll  have  a  talk  about  it.' 

"  As  England  wanted  Ireland  to  shoulder  the 
gun,  John  Bull  should  have  made  him  a  loyal  sub- 
ject by  putting  Home  Rule  into  operation. 
There  are  probably,  or  there  were,  before  the 
slaughter  (for  Irishmen  went  to  fight  when  Eng- 
land was  short  of  ammunition,  and  had  only  the 
breasts  of  soldiers  as  a  defence  against  German 
guns)  170,000  Irishmen  in  the  Army.  If  we  had 
got  Home  Rule  we  could  have  doubled  this  num- 
ber, and  without  conscription.  Probably  Mac- 
Donagh,  and  the  O'Rahilly,  and  Connolly,  and 
other  leaders  of  the  uprising,  would  have  died  with 
the  Victoria  Cross  on  their  breasts,  fighting  for, 
instead  of  against,  England." 

"  But  surely,"  I  said,  "  these  men  if  they  were 
not  madmen,  must  have  known  that  death  was 
inevitable? " 

"  They  were  not  mad,  they  were  exalted  vision- 
aries and  fanatics,  burning  with  the  unquench- 
able spirit  of  nationality.  Bloodshed  is  losing  its 
terrors.  The  papers  contained  a  daily  Roll  of 
Honour.  Irish  soldiers  arrived  from  the  Front 
wounded,  maimed,  and  dying.  Death  hovered  in 
the  air,  and  became  a  familiar  friend.  These  men 
resolved  to  die  for  Ireland.  They  thought  her 
patience  to  await  events  was  weakening  the  Irish 
character.  Irish  Nationality  was  being  withered, 


18  HERSELF— IRELAND 

like  a  blight.  Parnell  said  that  no  Irish  member 
was  useful  to  Ireland  after  he  had  served  two 
years  in  a  British  Parliament.  The  Insurrection- 
ists had  lost  faith  in  Irish  parliamentarians.  Mr. 
Birrel  must  have  heard  of  the  uprising.  It  was 
openly  whispered  over  Ireland  that  an  insurrec- 
tion was  in  the  air  of  such  dimensions  that  after 
the  War,  at  the  table  of  peace,  Ireland  would  be 
exalted  to  consideration  by  the  International 
Council  of  the  World.  And  though  she  was 
not  mentioned  by  name,  America  loomed  large 
in  the  foreground,  for  the  Sinn  Fein  move- 
ment made  a  strong  appeal  to  young  Irish 
America." 

"  And,"  I  said,  "  Germany  must  have  been 
somewhat  involved? " 

"  Germany,  I  am  sure,  had  little  to  do  with  the 
actual  uprising;  it  was  too  small  a  thing  to  engage 
her  attention — and  too  hopeless,  but  undeniably 
there  was  a  hidden  hand  somewhere.  England 
has  been,  and  is,  Master  of  the  Seas.  In  spite  of 
her  submarine  warfare,  Germany  has  a  hungry 
realisation  of  this  fact.  Possibly  she  furnished  a 
certain  amount  of  arms  and  ammunition.  She 
also  furnished  arms  and  ammunition  to  Ulster, 
for  which  she  has  never  been  paid, — the  war 
interfered  with  that." 

"  What  a  pity,"  I  said,  "  the  very  varied  in- 
terests of  Ireland  are  not  fused  together.  If 


WHY  I  WENT  TO  IRELAND       19 

Cork  and  Belfast  were  united,  couldn't  The 
Irish  Question  be  settled  at  once  and  for 
ever? " 

"  Perhaps,  but  you  are  opening  up  a  wide  field 
now.  I  must  send  you  to  Belfast,  to  talk  with  my 
brother-in-law.  He  is  a  Resident  Magistrate 
there,  a  very  broad-minded  and  intellectual  man; 
my  sister  will  be  delighted  to  have  you  pay  her  a 
visit." 

"  Can  you  invite  me,  a  stranger,  to  your  sis- 
ter's house?  "  I  said,  smilingly. 

"Certainly  I  can,"  he  said,  cordially;  "and 
to  half-a-dozen  other  houses  in  Ireland.  To  my 
mother's  in  County  Cork,  and  my  brother's  in 
Queenstown,  and  a  cousin's  in  Kerry.  You  must 
make  them  all  visits." 

This  hospitality  was  as  whole-hearted  as  that  of 
the  South,  although  less  compelling.  A  story  is 
told  of  a  man  riding  through  my  own  State, 
Texas,  in  the  early  days,  who  looked  up,  and  saw 
a  negro  seated  on  a  fence  tremblingly  pointing  a 
rifle  at  him. 

"  Damn  you,  put  that  down,  it  will  go  off  in  a 
minute — what  the  hell  are  you  trying  to  shoot 
me  for? " 

"  I  ain't  gwine  to  shoot  you,  Sir,  if  you'll  only 
do  what  my  ole  Massa  axes  you  to  do,"  said  the 
negro. 

"  What  the  devil  does  he  want  me  to  do? "  said 


20  HERSELF— IRELAND 

the  man.  "  It  must  be  something  inhuman  if  it 
has  to  be  done  at  the  muzzle  of  a  gun." 

"  No  it  ain't,  Sir — ole  Massa's  mighty  lone- 
some, livin'  on  dis  big  ranch  by  hisself,  an'  he  says 
to  me  dis  morning,  '  Jim,  go  down  to  de  road, 
an'  bring  me  a  visitor.  Ef  you  don't  I'll  blow 
out  yo'  brains  an'  mine.'  I  bin  sittin'  here  some 
time,  an'  I  seen  two  other  men  go  by,  but  I 
knowed  dey  wouldn't  er  suited  ole  Massa.  He 
might  er  blowed  out  dur  brains,  along  wid  mine 
and  his'en.  But  you  an'  ole  Massa  will  git  along 
togedder.  I  knowed  you  was  a  gentleman  de  min- 
ute I  heard  you  cuss." 

The  man  threw  himself  off  his  horse,  walked 
with  the  negro  to  the  house,  and  said  at  the  end 
of  his  enforced  visit  he  never  spent  a  pleasanter 
fortnight. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  REBELLION  OF  1916 

God  Save  Ireland  and  the  People  in  it 

(Old  Gaelic  Proverb) 

I  MADE  no  haste  to  see  the  ruins  of  Sackville 
Street ;  the  great  plate  windows  of  the  Shelbourne, 
decorated  with  holes,  from  which  zigzag  lines 
sprang  like  violent  spiders'  webs,  were  reminder 
enough  of  Dublin's  tragic  week.  And  from  those 
who  were  eye-witnesses  I  could  visualise  all  that 
had  happened.  A  journalist  describing  his  ex- 
periences said  to  me: 

"  On  Easter  Monday,  I  was  writing  my  daily 
column,  when  I  heard  the  tramp,  tramp  of  march- 
ing men.  It  was  no  unusual  sound,  but  the 
rhythm  of  those  steady  feet  somehow  thrilled  me. 
I  dropped  my  pen.  Ran  to  the  window.  Threw 
it  up.  Heard  a  shot.  Saw  a  policeman  fall.  A 
priest  hurried  to  his  side.  Sharp  firing  began,  and 
though  dazed  I  realised  it  was  an  attack  on  Dub- 
lin Castle.  A  few  minutes  later  the  premises  of 
the  Evening  Mail  were  seized,  and  I  was  mentally 
preparing  a  column  more  vital  than  the  one  I 
had  been  forced  to  abandon.  As  they  say  in  the 

vernacular  of  your  country,  there  was  not  only 
21 


22  HERSELF— IRELAND 

a  '  story '  opening  before  me,  but  a  living  drama, 
unleavened  by  comedy,  and  submerged  in  blood, 
and  tears,  and  death." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  " '  The  filling  up  of  graves,  the 
wringing  of  drenched  hands,' — and  then? " 

"  The  Insurrectionists  held  our  office  all  the 
afternoon,  and  Monday  night  the  battle  still 
raged.  The  Volunteers  fought  with  red-hot  cour- 
age, desperately,  as  men  fight  who  put  an  extrava- 
gant resolve  to  the  test.  The  bullets  swarmed  like 
deadly  gnats;  from  Cork  Hill  they  formed  a  zone 
in  which  nothing  could  live.  Men  in  khaki  tried 
in  vain  to  storm  the  fortress.  The  Insurgents 
fired  with  unerring  aim,  and  the  soldiers  fell  dead 
or  wounded  in  groups  of  three  or  four,  until  the 
end  of  the  siege,  when  the  final  assault  made  the 
Sinn  Feiners  lay  down  their  arms. 

"  Tuesday,  fighting  was  going  on  all  day,  snipers 
firing  from  the  houses  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Cork  Hill,  and  the  soldiers  dared  death  in  trying 
to  find  them.  Men  going  from  house  to  house 
duty  were  almost  certain  to  be  killed  or  wounded. 
I  saw  two  brave  Colonials,  a  captain  and  his 
corporal,  hunting  for  rebels,  the  latter  with  an 
amateur  bandage  about  his  jaw,  and  the  former 
with  an  awkward  bandage  round  his  hand.  Al- 
though both  should  have  been  in  hospital,  they 
were  clearing  the  streets,  firing  at  windows  and 
roofs,  and  being  fired  at  in  return.  Thursday,  I 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916  23 

saw  them  again,  and  I  watched  the  captain  until  he 
was  wounded  in  the  leg,  but  even  then  he  con- 
tinued on  duty,  and  if  he  had  been  in  France  fight- 
ing against  the  Germans,  instead  of  in  Dublin 
fighting  against  the  Irish — very  probably  he  was 
himself  of  Irish  extraction — undoubtedly  he  would 
have  won  the  Victoria  Cross." 

"Tell  me  how  he  deserved  it?"  I  asked. 

"  On  Friday  he  was  at  the  Four  Courts ;  it  was 
toward  the  end,  and  both  sides  were  fighting  dog- 
gedly. In  some  of  the  smaller  streets  barricades 
had  been  erected  by  the  Sinn  Feiners  on  the  one 
side  and  the  regular  troops  on  the  other.  The 
Sinn  Feiners  were  firing  continuously,  and  prov- 
ing what  good  marksmen  they  were.  A  number 
of  wounded  soldiers  had  already  been  carried  off, 
when  the  Colonial  captain  filled  two  bags  with 
bombs,  slung  them  across  his  shoulders,  leaped 
over  his  own  barricade,  made  for  the  barricade 
of  the  enemy,  threw  bombs  to  the  right  and  to 
the  left,  demolished  the  defence,  routed  and 
wounded  the  snipers  lying  behind  it,  but  fell,  shot 
through  the  heart  himself." 

"  A  gallant  man,"  I  said,  "  a  very  gallant 
soldier  of  the  King,  indeed  he  deserved  the  Vic- 
toria Cross.  And  what  of  the  rebels,  did  you 
single  out  any  one  man  among  them?" 

"  Yes,  there  was  a  tall  young  giant  from  the 
South  or  West,  he  seemed  to  bear  a  charmed  life, 


24  HERSELF— IRELAND 

for  again  and  again,  the  5th  Dublin  Fusiliers  fired 
at  him,  a  bullet  winged  his  sleeve,  another  went 
through  the  top  of  his  green  hat  and  toppled  it  to 
the  ground;  he  let  it  lie,  tossed  back  his  red  mane, 
and  with  a  steady  aim  sent  a  bullet  through  a  sol- 
dier's body.  After  that,  a  perfect  volley  fell 
around  him,  but  he  still  remained  unhurt;  his 
fingers  moved  like  lightning,  he  fired  with  the 
quickness  of  a  Catling  gun,  and  he  must  have 
wounded  any  number  of  men." 

"Was  he  killed?" 

"  Not  while  I  watched  him.  Sometimes  when  he 
fired  he  yelled  out,  *  God  save  the  Irish  Repub- 
lic!' He  was  a  spectacular  rascal." 

"  The  Irish  Republic,"  I  said,  "  it  must  have 
given  even  your  loyal  heart  a  thrill." 

"  It  did  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  my  expo- 
nent. "  I  am  not  a  believer  in  Republics,  even  in 
yours,  and  we  don't  want  to  be  governed  in  Ire- 
land by  madmen." 

"  You  did  not  contemplate  that  danger  too 
long,"  I  said,  "the  leaders  were  all  shot  without 
delay.  And  four  of  them — who,  by  the  way,  were 
not  leaders — were  wrongly  condemned  by  the 
order  of  one  of  your  own  madmen.  A  man  who 
for  your  credit,  you  have  now  put  in  a  lunatic 
asylum." 

"  In  a  crisis,"  said  my  exponent,  "  some 
wretched  mistakes  must  occur." 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916  25 

"  Not  necessarily,"  I  said.  "  The  wisest  law- 
yers, judges,  supreme  judges,  and  great  jurists 
whom  I  have  known,  men  with  broad  and  judicial 
minds,  all  argue  that  Court  Martial  should  be 
abolished,  more  especially  where  private  citizens 
are  concerned.  The  hanging  of  Mrs.  Surrat, 
after  a  trial  by  Court  Martial,  for  complicity  in 
the  assassination  of  President  Lincoln,  is  now 
considered  a  blot  upon  the  administration  of 
American  justice.  The  military  mind  is  not  usu- 
ally analytic,  and  it  often  works  slowly.  Mili- 
tary legs  and  arms  are  quick,  but  in  a  crisis  it  is 
more  necessary  for  the  mind  to  work  with  despatch 
than  the  body.  But  I  am  interrupting  you ;  please 
go  on  with  your  history  of  the  rebellion." 

"  On  Wednesday  I  got  as  far  as  Ballsbridge, 
and  met  the  troops  who  had  arrived  at  Kingstown, 
and  were  then  nearing  their  headquarters  in  the 
Show  grounds  of  Ballsbridge.  They  were  dying 
of  thirst,  and  boys,  women,  and  children  ran 
for  water,  bringing  it  back  in  cups,  jugs,  and 
buckets,  which  the  men  drank.  And  well  they 
did,  for  early  in  the  afternoon  the  battle  began. 
At  first  the  populace  following  the  soldiers  had 
no  realisation  of  danger.  Even  when  firing  com- 
menced they  were  not  alarmed;  it  was  only  when 
the  Sinn  Feiners  answered  and  here  and  there  a 
soldier  fell,  that  they  took  alarm  and  ran  pell 
mell  back  to  the  houses." 


26  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"And  on  Thursday?" 

"  After  Wednesday  I  confined  my  movements 
to  Dublin.  I  was  trying  to  find  a  young  lieu- 
tenant who  had  been  missing  since  Monday.  A 
boy  had  seen  him  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
Post  Office  on  that  day,  and  it  seemed  more  than 
probable  that  he  had  been  killed;  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  was  a  prisoner  in  the  General  Post 
Office.  While  buying  stamps,  he  heard  a  voice 
outside  shouting,  *  Charge !  Charge ! '  A  crowd 
of  Insurgents  rushed  in,  a  Volunteer  presented  a 
bayonet  to  his  breast.  He  was  taken  prisoner, 
bound  with  wires,  and  placed  in  the  telephone  box, 
which  almost  immediately  became  a  place  of  dan- 
ger, for  as  soon  as  the  employees  were  marched 
out,  the  Lancers  fired  from  outside,  and  bullets 
whizzed  through  the  box.  After  three  hours,  by 
the  O'Rahilly's  orders,  he  was  taken  to  the  top 
floor  and  commanded  to  watch  the  safe.  On 
Tuesday,  Wednesday,  and  Thursday  he  per- 
formed this  duty  in  the  midst  of  constant  firing. 
On  Friday  the  roof  began  to  blaze,  and  he  and 
other  prisoners  crawled  under  a  table  when  they 
saw  it  was  about  to  topple  on  them.  In  the 
evening  they  were  taken  downstairs  to  the  base- 
ment below  the  building,  but  their  danger  only 
increased,  as  it  was  a  repository  for  bombs  with 
fuses  set,  for  dynamite,  gelignite,  cordite,  and 
guncotton.  Seeing  the  menace  of  a  horrible 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916          27 

death,  they  shouted  and  a  lieutenant  of  the  In- 
surgents found  them  and  said,  '  It's  all  right, 
follow  me,  boys,'  and  they  did  with  remarkable 
celerity.  He  took  them  through  the  burning 
building  to  the  yard  at  the  back.  A  short  time 
afterwards  they  were  led  to  Moore  Lane  and  told, 
at  the  point  of  the  pistol,  to  cut  and  run.  They 
were  off  like  hares,  and  successfully  passed  a  back 
street  where  troops  were  firing  a  machine-gun, 
only  to  get  in  an  alley  where  a  big  gun  was  spat- 
tering out  bullets  like  rain.  They  escaped  that 
danger  by  climbing  over  a  parapet,  found  them- 
selves in  a  courtyard,  and  crawled  down  the  cellar 
of  a  house  which  had  been  gutted  by  fire.  There 
they  spent  the  night  and  the  next  day,  a  machine- 
gun  being  constantly  busy  in  the  vicinity. 
Towards  evening  things  got  so  hot  for  them  they 
crawled  out  of  the  cellar  into  a  van  which  had 
been  left  in  the  yard.  At  half-past  six  o'clock 
they  were  discovered  by  a  corporal  who  was  on  the 
lookout  for  rebels.  They  had  then  been  without 
food  or  drink  for  twenty-four  hours.  My  friend 
had  received  a  shot  in  his  leg,  and  I  found  him 
in  a  hospital,  where  he  had  been  before,  recover- 
ing from  other  wounds,  which,  as  a  gallant  Irish 
soldier,  he  had  received  at  the  Front.  I  also 
saw  that  broad  and  beautiful  thoroughfare,  Sack- 
ville  Street,  later  in  red  flames,  completely  demol- 
ished by  fire;  so  you  will  not  be  surprised  that  I 


28  HERSELF— IRELAND 

consider  the  Sinn  Feiners,  who  brought  all  this 
ruin  and  destruction  upon  our  city,  as  rebels  who 
only  got  what  they  deserved  in  summary  punish- 
ment." 

"  And  what  about  the  looting? "  I  asked. 

He  smiled.  "  There  Irish  comedy  asserted  it- 
self. The  jewellers'  shops  containing  valuables, 
diamonds  and  pearls,  silver  and  gold,  were  left 
intact.  Smart  hats  and  frocks  intimidated  the 
poor,  but  sweets,  and  fruits,  and  shoes  were  more 
popular  loot.  There  was  no  organisation  for  the 
appropriation  of  property;  what  was  taken  was 
rather  like  a  comic  scene,  staged  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  public." 

Then  I  asked  a  friend  who  could  give  me  a  little 
history  of  the  Volunteers.  And  he  said,  "  Colonel 
Moore  knows  more  of  that  movement  than  any 
man  in  Ireland." 

"  I  am  told,"  I  said,  when  I  met  him,  "  that  the 
initial  idea  and  the  organisation  of  the  Irish 
National  Volunteers  were  due  to  you.  Will  you 
tell  me  how  it  came  about? " 

"  Shall  I  begin  at  the  beginning? " 

"  By  all  means,  as  an  introduction  is  necessary 
to  illumine  my  ignorance." 

"  Well,  there  was  the  Gaelic  movement,  headed 
by  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde,  which  aimed  at  the  revival 
of  a  culture  of  National  literature,  music,  dances, 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916          29 

and  language.  Next  in  importance  came  Sir 
Horace  Plunkett's  organisation  of  Irish  Agricul- 
ture and  the  Industrial  Development  Association. 
Sinn  Fein  was  very  sympathetic  towards  all  these 
movements,  which  received  little  encouragement 
from  the  Parliamentarians ;  but  somehow  it  gradu- 
ally degenerated  from  being  pro-Irish  to  anti- 
English.  It  would  be  an  error  to  class  all,  or 
even  a  majority,  of  the  people  who  described 
themselves  as  believers  in  the  Sinn  Fein  policy, 
as  believers  in  revolution,  or  as  sympathetic  to 
rebellion.  Many  Sinn  Feiners  believed  that  by  a 
cultured  propaganda  and  economic  organisation 
the  Ireland  they  wished  to  create  would  come  into 
being  without  any  appeal  to  arms.  They  un- 
doubtedly hoped  for  Self-Government,  but  many 
people  who  would  before  the  war  have  called 
themselves  Sinn  Feiners  are  now  in  the  English 
Army  and  even  hold  Commissions.  In  fact,  the 
Sinn  Fein  movement  in  its  widest  sense  ranged 
from  believers  in  agricultural  organisation  and 
voluntary  co-operation,  like  Sir  Horace  Plunkett 
and  Sir  Nugent  Everard,  and  propagandists  of 
the  native  culture  and  language  like  Dr.  Hyde  and 
Professor  MacNeill,  to  those  who  were  inclining 
to  revolution,  and  wished  to  achieve  by  direct 
action  in  politics  what  voluntary  organisation  was 
doing  in  agriculture  and  the  Gaelic  movement  was 
doing  for  the  Irish  language. 


30  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"  After  the  last  Fenian  rising  for  fifty  years 
there  had  been  no  attempt  at  an  armed  revolu- 
tion; the  possibility  of  it  had  disappeared  out  of 
the  minds  of  nearly  all  Irishmen,  even  the  most 
extreme;  they  had  trusted  to  the  exertions  of  their 
representatives  in  Parliament,  and  in  this  way 
had  gradually  gained  much  of  the  liberty  for 
which  they  had  formerly  shed  their  blood.  They 
seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  gaining  the  last  and 
greatest  boon,  the  right  to  govern  their  own  coun- 
try. Home  Rule  was  in  sight,  when  a  new  theory 
was  developed  by  their  opponents.  Sir  Edward 
Carson  and  the  Orangemen  stated  that  votes  were 
of  no  account;  and  majorities  not  worth  talking 
about.  They  appealed  to  force,  appointed  a  Pro- 
visional Government,  and  proceeded  to  arm  and 
organise  an  army  to  intimidate  the  Government 
of  the  country.  Parliament  was  openly  flouted, 
and  the  Orange  watchword  was,  '  Ulster  will 
fight.' " 

"  How  well,"  I  said,  "  I  remember  that  slogan, 
*  Ulster  will  fight.'  The  Daily  Mail  had  its  back 
page  filled  with  photographs  of  soldiers  seven 
feet  high  at  attention,  with  Sir  Edward  Carson 
in  a  semi-demi  military  costume  inspecting  them, 
while  Arnold  White  stood  by  patriotically  wear- 
ing the  cap  of  a  sailor,  and  representing  'the 
Queen's  Navee.'  Why,  the  whole  lot  of  them 
were  perfect  pets,  only  waiting  to  fight,  and  so 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916  31 

anxious  were  they  to  do  it  that  the  admiring  public 
did  not  realise  there  was  nobody  to  fight." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Colonel  Moore,  with  a  smile ; 
"  nevertheless  the  leaders  of  one  of  the  great 
English  parties  upheld  them,  and  Ministers  con- 
doned their  acts;  Judges,  Peers,  Bishops,  Clergy- 
men, society  women  lauded  them  as  heroes  and 
patriots,  and  even  in  England  Volunteers  were 
enrolled  to  fight  against  Parliament  under  the 
Orange  flag.  Race  hatred  and  religious  bigotry 
were  excited  to  the  utmost  to  bring  about  Civil 
War. 

"  Mr.  Bonar  Law,  at  Dublin,  28th  November, 
1913,  said: 

1 '  I  have  said  on  behalf  of  the  party  that  if 
the  Government  attempt  to  coerce  Ulster  before 
they  have  received  the  sanction  of  the  electors, 
Ulster  will  do  well  to  resist  them  and  we  will 
support  resistance  to  the  end.  I  wonder  whether 
you  have  tried  to  picture  in  your  own  minds  what 
Civil  War  means  .  .  .  it  is  a  prospect  from 
which  I  shrink  in  horror,  and  for  which  I  wish 
to  avoid  if  I  can  any  responsibility;  but  really  we 
must  try  to  think  what  the  effect  of  bloodshed  and 
Civil  War  would  be  on  our  Parliamentary  insti- 
tutions, on  the  Army,  on  the  Empire  as  a  whole. 
It  would  not  mean  anarchy,  it  would  mean  liter- 
ally red  ruin  and  the  breaking  up  of  law.  It 
would  produce  results  from  which  our  country 


32  HERSELF— IRELAND 

would  not  recover  in  the  lifetime  of  any  one  of 
those  whom  I  am  addressing.' 

"  Under  such  circumstances  Irish  Nationalists 
would  have  been  unworthy  of  freedom  if  they 
had  not  accepted  the  challenge  flung  so  insultingly 
in  their  faces. 

"  In  October,  1913,  a  meeting  was  held  in  Dub- 
lin for  the  purpose  of  forming  a  Volunteer  force 
— so  you  see  the  germ  of  the  idea  was  not  mine — 
the  object  of  which  was  stated  to  be,  *  to  defend 
the  rights  and  liberties  of  all  Irishmen  irrespective 
of  creed  or  class  or  politics.'  But  the  underlying 
idea  in  the  minds  of  all  was  to  support  Parlia- 
ment against  the  illegal  threats  of  the  Orange 
Party." 

"  And  then  what  happened? " 

"  I  joined  the  movement  at  its  birth,  and  was 
scoffed  at  by  my  Unionist  friends  in  Ireland  and 
England,  who  prophesied  that  I  could  not  raise  a 
hundred  men  in  Ireland  to  defend  Home  Rule. 
'No  one  wants  it,'  they  said,  'now  that  the 
peasants  have  got  the  land.'  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  Unionists  would  do  for  an 
argument  without  peasants  and  the  land." 

"I  went  to  Mayo,  which  is  my  own  country, 
and  began  raising  Volunteer  Corps  in  various 
towns;  in  this  way  I  was  brought  in  touch  with 
men  of  all  classes,  creeds,  and  opinions;  and 
when  I  put  forward  the  object  of  the  movement, 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916          33 

the  one  that  produced  the  most  intense  enthusiasm 
was  the  chance  of  reconciling  hostile  sections." 

"  How  splendid,"  I  said ;  "  it  really  seemed  the 
beginning  of  the  settlement  of  The  Irish  Ques- 
tion." 

"  I  explained  that  we  were  not  attacking  land- 
lords or  tenants,  Protestants  or  Catholics,  and 
that  we  looked  upon  Orangemen  as  our  fellow- 
countrymen.  We  intended  neither  to  oppress 
them,  nor  to  force  them,  where  they  were  in  a 
majority,  to  accept  a  Government  against  their 
inclinations;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  we  would 
defend  our  own  rights  and  not  suffer  ourselves 
to  be  oppressed.  We  wanted  Land  Leaguers, 
Hibernians,  Sinn  Feiners,  and  loyal  Unionists 
to  drill  side  by  side,  not  giving  up  their  own 
opinions  or  associations  but  coming  together  as 
Volunteers.  These  were  the  tenets  of  the  Irish 
Volunteers  when  they  were  inaugurated,  and 
they  captured  the  country  in  a  few  months.  To 
such  an  extreme  was  this  toleration  carried  that 
in  Dublin  and  Galway  cheers  were  given  for  the 
Ulster  Volunteers  as  brother  Irishmen.  Men  of 
the  most  intensely  opposite  sections  became 
friends;  I  was  met  one  day  outside  a  meeting  by 
the  heads  of  two  hostile  leagues  walking  arm  in 
arm;  they  told  me  they  had  not  spoken  for  years 
but  were  going  to  drill  together." 

"  How  proud  you  must  have  been,"  I  said. 


34  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"All  this  was  not  done  without  difficulty;  it 
was  rumoured  that  the  Parliamentary  Party  was 
opposed  to  our  movement,  but  in  the  main  I  car- 
ried my  way  in  the  West,  and  the  same  doctrine 
was  preached  in  every  province. 

"When  I  was  satisfied  about  the  soundness  of 
my  views,  and  the  practical  possibility  of  our 
plans,  I  went  to  Dublin  and  joined  the  Pro- 
visional Committee.  On  my  first  entrance  I  found 
about  twenty-five  members  present;  nearly  all  of 
them  were  young  men.  None  of  them  knew  any- 
thing of  military  affairs  or  the  '  division  of  bat- 
tle more  than  a  spinster,'  but  they  had  hired  halls 
for  drilling  and  obtained  the  free  services  of 
excellent  sergeants  to  instruct  them.  Except  Mr. 
John  MacNeill  and  Mr.  Pearce  and  Mr.  Mac- 
Donagh,  I  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  any  of 
them  before,  and  it  took  two  or  three  days  to  size 
them  up  and  separate  the  groups.  There  were 
about  two  extremists  and  four  or  five  young  boys 
under  their  domination;  these  latter  were  mild 
and  quiet  and  by  no  means  unreasonable.  Five 
or  six  Sinn  Feiners  were  in  a  distinct  group;  they 
might  be  described  as  extreme  Home  Rulers  at 
this  time;  they  did  not  approve  of  the  methods 
of  the  Parliamentary  party,  but  they  were  not 
revolutionists;  they  had  a  very  cloudy  idea  how 
they  were  going  to  attain  their  ends,  but  in  the 
main  they  disliked  Mr.  Redmond  and  the  Parlia- 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916  35 

mentary  party  which  they  distrusted;  they  fol- 
lowed the  opinions  of  Mr.  Griffith,  the  Editor 
of  the  Sinn  Fein  newspaper.  There  were  a  few 
like  MacNeill,  Pearce,  MacDonagh,  Plunkett,  and 
the  O'Rahilly,  who  belonged  to  no  special  political 
party;  they  were  idealists.  The  remainder  of  the 
Committee  were  moderate  men  inclined  to  follow 
the  Parliamentary  party.  All  these  opinions  were 
kept  strictly  in  the  background;  no  politics  of 
any  sort  were  discussed,  and  the  shades  of  opinion 
would  have  been  difficult  to  find  out  except  by 
private  conversation.  It  will  be  interesting  to  note 
how  some  of  the  Sinn  Fein  party,  and  some  of  the 
Idealists  gradually  became  extremists  and  merged 
with  the  Fenians.  The  Volunteers  themselves 
were  on  strictly  non-party  lines ;  it  was  their  boast 
that  they  were  a  national,  not  a  political  body, 
and  this  was  not  a  great  exaggeration." 
"What  sort  of  men  were  the  leaders?" 
"  They  were  men  of  the  highest  character,  pub- 
lic and  private,  whose  whole  lives  from  childhood 
had  been  permeated  with  thoughts  not  of  their 
own  selfish  interests,  but  of  the  interests  of  their 
country.  They  were  intimately  acquainted  with 
its  history,  its  literature,  its  language  and  its  an- 
tiquities, and  had  the  most  romantic  views  regard- 
ing its  future.  Some  of  them,  like  MacNeill, 
were  scholars  and  Professors,  whose  opinions  are 
as  much  studied  and  respected  by  students  abroad 


36  HERSELF— IRELAND 

as  at  home;. others,  like  MacDonagh,  were  poets 
with  considerable  gifts.  Only  yesterday  I  was 
charmed  by  a  beautiful  poem  he  had  translated 
from  the  Gaelic.  Pearce  was  a  man  of  such 
tender  sympathies  that  he  would  not  shoot  nor 
fish  because  he  could  not  bear  to  give  pain;  his 
school  garden  full  of  fruit  was  not  shut  off  from 
the  boys;  he  trusted  to  their  honour  not  to  steal, 
and  when  the  temptation  of  rosy  apples  proved 
too  great,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  slap  the 
little  culprits.  All  were  men  who  would  have  been 
the  choicest  and  the  finest  blossom  of  any  Nation 
in  the  world,  and  whose  one  absorbing  passion 
was  to  lay  down  their  lives  in  order  that  their 
country  might  be  advanced  even  one  step  in  pros- 
perity and  enlightenment.  If  they  had  been  born 
in  Canada  or  Australia  they  would  have  been 
great  citizens;  it  is  certain  they  would  have  been 
foremost  in  some  wild  Anzac  charge,  and  might 
have  died  by  Turkish  bullets  instead  of  against  a 
Barrack  wall  in  Dublin." 

"Yes;  a  different  environment  and  such  men 
are  heroes.  Then  what  happened?" 

"We  were  then  advanced  as  far  as  a  com- 
mittee." 

"  A  very  dangerous  stage  in  Ireland,"  I  said. 

"From  the  first  I  had  seen  that  a  large  body 
of  twenty-five  members  of  different  views,  very 
indiscriminately  chosen,  and  with  no  technical 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916          37 

knowledge,  could  not  govern  the  Volunteers.  I 
pressed  this  point  on  Mr.  MacNeill  and  those 
who  were  the  most  intelligent,  and  it  was  agreed 
amongst  a  few  that  this  idea  of  a  small  committee 
should  be  developed.  I  considered  that  a  com- 
mittee of  three  would  be  best;  but  it  was  argued 
that  there  were  not  in  the  committee  three  men 
sufficiently  known  and  trusted  in  Ireland  to 
undertake  the  job,  and  that  five  would  be  neces- 
sary." 

"The  smaller  the  committee  the  better,"  I 
said. 

"  And  I  was  deputed  to  see  Mr.  Redmond  on 
the  subject.  The  party  had  not  hitherto  ap- 
proved an  organisation  that  might  develop  on 
wrong  lines,  but  they  now  agreed  to  join  with 
a  committee  of  nine  as  a  governing  body. 

"  Unfortunately,  there  was  a  slight  disagree- 
ment as  to  its  composition,  and  the  dispute  ended 
by  Mr.  Redmond  appointing  twenty-five  new 
members  as  an  addition  to  the  old  Committee;  a 
thoroughly  bad  arrangement  which  made  a  split 
inevitable." 

"  Why  didn't  you,  knowing  this,"  I  said,  "  state 
your  views  quite  frankly  to  Mr.  Redmond? " 

"  At  the  moment  I  had  gone  off  to  inspect  and 
teach  Volunteers  in  the  West.  I  was  in  Limerick 
when  I  heard  that  a  dispute  had  arisen.  I  re- 
turned to  Dublin,  but  it  had  taken  so  aggravated 


38  HERSELF— IRELAND 

a  form  that  intervention  had  then  become  im- 
possible." 

"  It  shouldn't  have  been,"  I  said.  "  You  had 
got  170,000  men  together  in  Ireland.  It  was  your 
job.  You  should  have  been  firm  over  the  twenty- 
five  members  of  the  committee  when  you  didn't 
believe  in  them." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  he  said;  "  but  Mr.  Redmond  had 
written,  'Will  you  accept  my  terms  or  will  you 
not?  If  you  will  not  I  will  start  a  new  organisa- 
tion of  my  own.'  That  meant  a  split  in  every 
town  and  village  in  Ireland.  My  hands  were  tied, 
but  nevertheless  the  Volunteers  grew  rapidly  in 
numbers  and  organisation;  Mayo  reckoned  10,000; 
Galway  not  much  less;  Derry  City  over  2,000 
trained  men,  so  that  we  could  count  in  the  spring 
about  170,000  men  in  Ireland.  I  had  been  ap- 
pointed Inspector  General  from  the  beginning,  and 
now  Colonel  Cotter,  late  R.E.,  joined  my  office 
as  Chief  of  the  Staff.  We  organised  the  scat- 
tered Corps  into  Companies,  Battalions,  and  Bri- 
gades, and  the  nucleus  of  an  army  began  to  make 
its  appearance.  Public  opinion  in  England  was 
impressed,  and  the  Orangemen  began  to  hesitate 
as  to  their  conduct.  In  the  beginning  they 
thought — wrongly  I  believe — that  they  had 
squared  the  Army.  It  is  natural  for  soldiers  to 
obey,  they  have  acquired  the  habit,  and  although 
Carson's  friends  and  the  loyal  pretty  ladies  of 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916  39 

his  acquaintance  had  asked  a  few  officers  not  to 
fight  against  Ulster,  and  in  a  moment  of  expan- 
siveness  they  had  said  they  would  not,  still  when 
the  moment  came  officers  and  soldiers  alike  would 
have  fallen  into  line  and  obeyed  orders;  but  in 
the  beginning  Ulster  men  calculated  on  a  walk- 
over. Now  it  seemed  different;  the  Government 
was  reinforced,  and  stiffened  its  attitude  to  the 
Orangemen." 

"  And  the  whole  of  Ireland  was  becoming  an 
army  of  drilled  militiamen?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Colonel  Moore;  "  and  events  of  im- 
portance were  developing  in  England.  War 
threatened  with  Germany,  and  it  was  evident  some 
sort  of  settlement,  permanent  or  temporary,  re- 
garding Ireland  must  be  arranged  between  parties. 
At  this  moment  the  Irish  Volunteers  rose  to  the 
height  of  their  popularity,  not  only  among  those 
who  usually  supported  the  National  cause,  but 
among  the  Southern  Unionists.  The  most  promi- 
nent Unionists  in  Ireland  offered  their  services, 
and  I  was  glad  to  seize  the  opportunity  to  bring 
them  into  our  movement,  as  a  sign  that  we  were 
not  narrow  or  bigoted  in  our  views.  Men  like 
Lord  Powerscourt,  Lord  Fingal,  Marquis  of 
Conyngham,  Captain  Bryan  Cooper,  Lord  Arran, 
and  numberless  others,  patriotically  putting  aside 
old  antagonisms,  came  to  our  help  and  became 
officers  of  the  Irish  Volunteers.  We  had  already 


40  HERSELF— IRELAND 

far  surpassed  the  Ulster  Volunteers  in  numbers, 
and  now  also  we  were  ahead  of  them  in  the  rank 
and  position  of  our  officers.  We  had  succeeded  in 
welding  together  all  parties  in  at  least  three  out 
of  four  southern  provinces,  and  we  had  achieved 
the  result  without  money  or  patronage,  but  merely 
by  the  patriotism  of  our  people,  the  moderation  of 
our  words,  and  the  wisdom  of  our  actions.  It  is 
a  result  of  which  I  at  least  am  proud." 

"  And  with  reason,"  I  said.  "  You  had  achieved 
the  impossible." 

Colonel  Moore  sighed.  "  War  was  declared 
early  in  August,  and  it  seemed  impossible  to  carry 
on  a  foreign  war  with  rebellion  threatening  at 
home  in  Ulster.  On  the  National  side  Mr. 
Redmond  relieved  the  situation  by  making  a 
public  and  unconditional  offer  of  the  services 
of  the  Volunteers  for  the  defence  of  the 
country. 

"As  usual,  the  Government  hesitated  what 
course  to  pursue,  and  tried  to  do  nothing.  Day 
after  day  speculation  was  keener  and  controversy 
grew  louder  as  to  the  signing  of  the  Home  Rule 
Bill.  I  was  travelling  all  over  the  country  re- 
viewing Volunteers,  and  everywhere  I  found  the 
anxiety  growing  more  intense.  It  was  freely 
stated  that  Carson  had  made  his  bargain,  and  that 
Redmond  had  shown  his  cards,  and  was  being 
cheated  by  the  Government." 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916  41 

"  In  this  instance  the  delay  of  the  Government 
proved  not  only  dangerous  but  fatal." 

"  Yes,"  said  Colonel  Moore;  "  the  Sinn  Feiners 
took  full  advantage  of  these  fears,  and  preached 
the  doctrine  of  '  perfide  Albion.'  Lord  Kitchener 
sent  over  an  officer  to  raise  an  Irish  Division,  and 
the  inclination  of  many  people  was  to  wait  until 
the  Government  declared  itself;  the  Sinn  Feiners 
said,  '  The  English  are  humbugging  us;  they  want 
our  recruits,  and  when  they  have  them  safely 
bagged,  they  will  snap  their  fingers  at  us.'  It 
could  not  be  denied  that  their  history  was  true,  and 
their  forebodings  had  every  appearance  of  being 
true  also.  Week  after  week  passed  by  with  no 
sign,  only  the  call  for  more  recruits.  The  time  was 
agonising  and  nerves  began  to  give  way." 

"  With  disunion  and  division  in  view  that  was 
inevitable." 

"  I  am  confident  that  the  weeks  elapsing  be- 
tween the  passing  of  the  Bill  and  its  signature 
by  the  King,  coupled  with  the  demand  for  re- 
cruits, estranged  the  people  of  Ireland  as  much 
as  the  Bill  itself  had  conciliated  them.  When 
at  last  the  Bill  was  signed  the  enthusiasm  was 
gone;  and  the  fact  that  it  was  not  to  be  put  in 
force  until  after  the  War,  with  the  threat  of  an 
undefined  amending  bill,  left  the  uncertainty  as 
great  as  ever.  Nobody  believed  in  it. 

"  Nothing  but  the  enormous  influence  of  Mr. 


42  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Redmond  and  the  leaders  of  the  Irish  party  pre- 
vented a  universal  and  determined  agitation 
against  recruiting;  whereas,  if  the  Home  Rule 
Bill  which  had  passed  three  times  through  the 
House  of  Commons,  had  been  loyally  adopted  by 
England,  there  would  have  been  such  enthusiasm 
for  the  Empire  that  any  number  of  recruits  would 
have  come  in,  and  Sinn  Fein  would  have  become 
less  influential  than  ever." 

"  But  the  Party  leaders  continued  to  assist  in 
recruiting,  didn't  they? " 

"  Some  of  them  did.  Mr.  Redmond  made  a 
speech  to  the  Volunteers  at  Woodenbridge  in 
favour  of  recruiting;  the  Sinn  Feiners  admitted 
at  this  time  that  they  could  not  complain  of  his 
advising  Irishmen  to  enlist,  but  they  put  forward 
the  theory  that  the  Volunteers  had  offered  to  de- 
fend the  shores  of  Ireland,  and  that  men  who  had 
made  certain  sacrifices  should  not  be  specially 
selected  for  opprobrium  because  they  did  not  go 
further;  moreover,  men  were  on  parade  and  could 
not  express  their  opinions;  it  was  not  fair  to 
lecture  them  in  this  position.  But  the  real  bit- 
terness was  because  the  Bill  was  not  signed  and 
it  was  believed  that  it  would  be  torn  up  as  soon 
as  the  recruits  had  been  collected." 

"  And  so  England  again  lost  the  confidence  of 
Ireland." 

"  I  was  at  this  time  sitting  regularly  on  the 


"KIT"   (FRENCH  POCHETTE)  OR  DANCING  MASTER'S 
FIDDLE 

By  Perry,  of  Dublin.     Late  Eighteenth  Century 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916  43 

provisional  Committee  and  was  in  almost  daily 
private  conversation  with  the  men  who  have  since 
been  executed  for  rebellion.  With  the  possible 
exception  of  one  or  two  of  the  extremists,  I  do 
not  believe  even  now,  looking  back  with  the  experi- 
ence of  late  events,  there  was  a  man  who  thought 
of  rebellion,  though  some  may  have  had  indefinite 
national  aspirations  in  the  far  future.  They  were 
all  Home  Rulers,  angry  at  being  cheated  out  of 
their  rights;  many  of  them  distrustful  of  Mr. 
Redmond,  and  all  of  them  by  this  time  intensely 
distrustful  of  English  promises.  Distrust  of  Eng- 
lish good  faith  is  the  basis  of  Irish  disloyalty." 

"  What  a  wonderfully  descriptive  phrase,  '  Dis- 
trust of  English  good  faith,  is  the  basis  of  Irish 
disloyalty.'  " 

"  Before  the  war  began,  like  most  other  people, 
I  foresaw  the  difficulties  that  were  bound  to  arise 
owing  to  the  existence  of  two  hostile  armed  parties 
in  Ireland.  I  knew  that  the  Government  was 
afraid  to  suppress  the  Carson  army,  and  there- 
fore could  not  suppress  the  Volunteers.  The  only 
solution  I  could  find  for  the  entanglement  was 
for  the  Government  to  extend  the  Territorial  Act 
to  Ireland,  into  which  men  of  both  parties  might 
enlist.  Orangemen  would  have  found  it  difficult 
to  refuse  on  account  of  their  loyal  professions, 
and  many  of  the  Irish  Volunteers  would  do  the 
same.  I  believe  now  that  was  the  proper  solu- 


44  HERSELF— IRELAND 

tion,  and  that  it  was  quite  feasible;  serving  to- 
gether in  the  same  regiments,  party  antagonisms 
would  have  softened.  An  Orange  rebellion  would 
then  have  been  impossible,  and  the  main  object  of 
the  Volunteers  would  have  been  effected. 

"But  time  was  not  available;  the  war  clouds 
had  already  risen,  and  men's  minds  were  wander- 
ing from  Ireland  and  the  Volunteers  of  either 
party  to  greater  issues.  I  saw  the  necessity  of 
taking  another  line,  and  aided  by  Sir  Horace 
Plunkett,  a  man  always  ready  to  help  at  a  diffi- 
cult moment,  for  whom  I  have  the  highest  appre- 
ciation, I  got  in  touch  with  the  Commander-in- 
Chief  in  Ireland.  At  his  invitation  I  went  to  see 
him,  in  company  with  Capt.  Hon.  FitzRoy 
Hemphill,  and  expressed  my  desire  to  find  some 
scheme  for  the  co-operation  of  the  Volunteers  in 
the  defence  of  Ireland. 

"  An  officer  of  his  Staff  proposed  a  scheme  by 
which  all  the  Volunteers  in  Ireland,  Unionist  and 
National,  should  receive  Military  Training;  he 
calculated  that  when  the  troops  were  removed 
there  would  be  room  for  20,000  men  at  one  time 
in  barracks,  and  these  should,  after  a  two  months' 
training,  be  passed  on  to  the  standing  camps ;  their 
places  in  barracks  being  taken  by  a  new  levee  of 
20,000  Volunteers;  after  the  camp  training  they 
would  be  ready  to  take  their  place  on  the  coast 
defences;  passing  after  their  tour  of  duty  to  their 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916          45 

own  homes.  In  this  way  by  circulating  new  levees 
through  the  barracks  and  camps  the  whole  force 
would  be  trained.  Working  side  by  side  in  this 
way,  I  hoped  the  troubles  and  hatreds  between  the 
different  parties  in  Ireland  would  have  gradually 
abated,  and  while  the  last  obstacle  to  National 
Self-Government  would  be  overcome,  our  former 
quarrels  would  have  ended  in  advantage  to  the 
Empire.  The  Volunteers  were  to  be  under  their 
own  officers  and  their  own  organisation,  and  we 
bargained  that  the  arms  should  belong  to  them 
after  the  War." 

"  If  this  had  been  done,"  I  said,  "  in  all  prob- 
ability the  rebellion  would  have  been  prevented." 

"  At  any  rate,"  he  said,  "  the  most  prominent 
members  of  the  Provisional  Committee,  men  even 
outside  the  moderate  section,  agreed  to  these  pro- 
posals. Later  on  Mr.  Redmond  and  the  leaders  of 
the  Irish  Party  also  accepted  them,  but  Lord 
Kitchener  refused  even  to  discuss  the  incorpora- 
tion of  the  Volunteers,  and  the  proposal  was 
abandoned." 

"  Then  it  was  Lord  Kitchener,"  I  said,  "  who 
signed  the  death  knell  of  your  plans." 

"  I  want  to  lay  stress  on  the  fact  that  the  lead- 
ers of  the  Irish  Volunteers,  and  that  members 
connected  with  the  late  rebellion,  were  willing  to 
join  in  the  defence  of  Ireland,  but  were  refused  by 
the  Government." 


46  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"  What  a  melancholy  indictment,"  I  said. 

"  Nothing  could  have  been  more  disastrous  than 
the  treatment  meted  out  to  the  Volunteers;  every 
advance  we  made  was  rejected  with  contempt." 

"  And  this  after  all  their  sacrifices  to  become 
soldiers!" 

"  The  feature  that  surprised  me  most  in  the 
Volunteer  movement,  was  the  strong  desire  of  the 
men  to  become  soldiers,  real  disciplined  soldiers, 
not  mere  make-believe  soldiers.  Any  officer  or 
soldier  of  the  Regular  Army,  any  man,  that  is, 
who  understood  the  trade,  obtained  their  alle- 
giance. No  talker  or  writer  could  compete  with 
a  soldier  for  leadership;  in  fact,  there  was  a  great 
distrust  of  oratory.  There  would  have  been  no 
difficulty  in  training  practically  the  whole  male 
population  of  the  country  if  the  superior  authori- 
ties had  been  intelligent,  or  had  listened  to  the 
advice  of  the  military  and  civil  authorities  in  Ire- 
land. But  the  opportunity  was  allowed  to  pass, 
and  the  military  ardour  was  allowed  to  be  diverted 
into  other  channels.  I  believe  every  one  in  Ire- 
land has  recommended  it,  military  and  civil,  except 
perhaps  the  Orangemen." 

"It  is  not  surprising,"  I  said,  "  to  learn  that 
every  Irishman  is  a  soldier  in  embryo,  for  the  bit- 
terest enemy  of  the  Irish  has  never  called  them 
cowards." 

"  Meanwhile  the  anger  of  the  Volunteers  against 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916  47 

the  Government  and  the  English  nation  for  put- 
ting off  Home  Rule  became  more  intense,  until  a 
split  occurred  in  the  Committee  between  the  ex- 
tremists and  the  Redmondites;  I  wrote  advising 
the  Volunteers  to  follow  Mr.  Redmond,  and  it  was 
calculated  that  about  160,000  followed  us,  and 
about  10,000  followed  the  Sinn  Feiners,  many 
left  the  ranks  disgusted,  and  never  returned  again. 
Then  came  a  series  of  the  most  stupid  mistakes, 
every  one  of  which  increased  the  strength  of  the 
Sinn  Fein  section.  Under  the  Defence  of  the 
Realm  Act  men  were  deported  and  imprisoned 
without  even  a  crime  being  alleged  against  them, 
but  merely  on  the  information  of  a  policeman  and 
the  warrant  of  the  authorities;  the  advice  was 
often  prejudiced  or  ignorant.  Newspapers  were 
suppressed,  and  allowed  to  reappear  again  under 
a  different  name  with  worse  articles. 

"  There  was  an  occurrence  shortly  before  the 
war  which  undoubtedly  caused  great  anger  in 
Ireland,  and  which  certainly  was  one  of  the  main 
causes  for  the  line  taken  by  a  prominent  man  who 
is  now  accused  of  extreme  courses.  All  the  com- 
merce of  Ireland  passes  through  Great  Britain, 
and  a  toll  for  transport  is  levied  on  all  goods. 
Before  1782  this  commercial  blockade  was  carried 
out  by  law,  and  was  the  occasion  of  the  demand 
successfully  made  by  Grattan  and  the  Volunteers 
for  free  trade  for  Ireland.  Since  then  it  is  be- 


48  HERSELF— IRELAND 

lieved  that  the  same  effect  has  been  produced  by 
the  secret  but  no  less  powerful  combination  of 
English  merchants." 

"And  what,"  I  said,  "  about  Queenstown? " 
"  There  again,"  said  Colonel  Moore,  "  the  Cun- 
ard  steamers  were  built  by  a  loan  of  Government 
money,  and  were  bound  by  contract  to  call  for 
mails  at  Queenstown,  but  suddenly  permission  was 
asked  to  leave  out  this  port  and  proceed  directly 
to  England;  this  breach  of  contract  was  per- 
mitted by  the  Postmaster  General  to  the  great 
detriment  of  Queenstown  and  Ireland,  which,  as 
the  result  of  the  intrigue,  was  again  cut  off  from 
intercourse  with  foreign  nations,  except  through 
England.  To  remedy  this,  communications  were 
begun  with  the  Hamburg- American  Line,  and 
arrangements  were  made  for  a  regular  service 
from  Queenstown.  Agents  were  named  and  pas- 
sages taken,  when  suddenly  the  sailings  were 
cancelled  without  any  reason  being  alleged.  It 
was  generally  believed  that  this  was  contrived  by 
the  Foreign  Office,  jealous  of  any  foreign  inter- 
course with  Ireland.  Whether  this  were  so  I  will 
not  argue;  but  it  certainly  had  that  appearance, 
and  created  a  very  bad  feeling  in  Ireland. 

"But  I  think  the  first  event  that  roused  real 
bitterness  among  the  Dublin  Volunteers  and  re- 
sounded all  over  Ireland,  was  the  action  of  cer- 
tain police  officials  in  regard  to  the  landing  of 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916          49 

rifles  at  Howth.  The  Arms  Act  was  repealed,  and 
the  Ulster  Provisional  Government  took  advan- 
tage of  this  state  of  affairs  to  arm  the  Ulster 
Volunteers.  No  steps  were  taken  to  prevent  this, 
although  it  was  admittedly  for  a  disloyal  purpose, 
until  the  Irish  Volunteers  were  founded  and  be- 
came numerous.  Then  an  order — believed  to  be  a 
partisan  stroke  against  the  Nationalists — which  has 
since  proved  to  be  illegal,  was  issued,  preventing 
the  introduction  of  arms  into  Ireland. 

"  In  spite  of  this  a  ship  was  chartered,  and  with 
the  connivance  of  some  sympathetic  officials,  and 
the  overbearing  of  others  the  rifles  were  landed  at 
Larne,  and  the  Ulster  Volunteers  paraded  with 
them  through  the  streets  of  Belfast,  openly  and 
unrebuked.  A  little  later  the  Irish  Volunteers 
followed  suit  and  landed  their  cargo  at  Howth. 
Immediately  news  of  this  was  received  a  large 
body  of  police  and  soldiers  was  assembled  and 
ordered  to  take  the  rifles  by  force  from  the  men's 
hands  in  the  streets.  In  attempting  to  do  this 
several  men  were  batoned,  others  bayoneted,  and  a 
great  disturbance  was  created  in  Dublin.  A  little 
later  in  the  day  some  civilians,  men  and  women, 
were  shot  by  the  soldiers  during  further  dis- 
turbances. 

These  unequal  proceedings  caused  a  very  hostile 
feeling  in  Ireland;  so  far  from  weakening  the 
Irish  Volunteers  their  numbers  were  nearly 


50  HERSELF— IRELAND 

doubled  in  the  next  week,  but  an  anti-English 
feeling,  and  a  feeling  against  the  Army  was  pro- 
voked just  before  the  war.  The  extremists  became 
more  extreme,  and  many  moderates  were  attracted 
to  that  party." 

"  Then  it  was  not  surprising  that  some  people 
opposed  or  discountenanced  recruiting." 

"  No.  The  Irish  are  a  jealous  people  and 
resent  uneven  treatment  more  almost  than  harsh 
usage.  The  question  was  asked  then  as  it  is 
to-day  in  every  house  in  Ireland:  What  would 
have  happened  if  the  Home  Rule  Act  had  been 
enforced  instead  of  postponed,  and  the  Covenant- 
ers had  revolted  as  they  had  sworn?  Would  Sir 
E.  Carson,  Mr.  Bonar  Law,  and  those  rich  and 
respected  Ulster  magnates  who  formed  the  Ulster 
Provisional  Government  have  been  shot  by  order 
of  a  Field  General  Court  Martial?  And  if  not, 
why  not?  Let  us  carry  back  our  minds  to  the 
state  of  feeling  that  existed  in  Ulster  and  England 
two  years  ago,  and  answer  that  question  without 
fear  or  favour.  Had  they  been  condemned  I  am 
sure  every  Nationalist  in  Ireland  would  have 
petitioned  for  grace. 

"  Idealists  are,  as  a  rule,  ready  to  die  for  their 
ideals,  but  they  never  get  large  numbers  to  die 
with  them,  unless  there  is  an  economic  grievance 
ready  to  ally  itself  with  other  grievances. 

"  The  strike  in  Dublin  three  years  ago  left  be- 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916  51 

hind  it  worse  feeling  than  any  of  recent  years. 
Labour  was  starved  out,  and  the  condition  of  the 
poor  in  Dublin  is  worse  probably  than  that  of  any 
city  in  these  islands.  The  bitter  feeling  of  injus- 
tice engendered  by  the  strike,  and  what  followed, 
provided  the  passionate  element  needed  to  drive 
revolutionary  idealists  into  action." 

"  And  then  came  the  rebellion?  " 

"  Yes,  and  the  deciding  factor  in  the  rebel- 
lion was  the  labour  leader  James  Conolly,  an 
organiser  and  leader  of  men;  a  man  of  action 
who  insisted  on  the  literary  idealists  translating 
their  words  into  deeds.  He  indicated  the  inevi- 
table meaning  of  their  speeches,  and  pointed 
the  direction  they  must  go  if  they  were  not 
to  be  held  up  to  their  country  as  mere 
dreamers. 

"  I  am  inclined  to  think  some  months  ago  the 
Governing  Committee  of  the  Irish  Volunteers 
passed  a  resolution  condemning  any  anti-English 
or  pro- German  agitation;  but  a  small  inner  coun- 
cil formed  itself  with  other  views,  and  a  junction 
was  formed  with  the  Transport  Union  under  Con- 
oily,  who  besides  being  a  labour  leader  was  an 
ardent  Nationalist;  his  grandfather  had  been 
hanged  after  the  rebellion  of  1798  and  the  tradi- 
tion remained  in  his  heart.  I  have  heard  the 
policy  of  the  Governing  Committee  was  that  there 
should  be  no  resistance  to  the  police  or  military 


52  HERSELF— IRELAND 

unless  disarmament  or  conscription  were  at- 
tempted. 

"  The  leaders  of  the  Volunteers  had  sources  of 
information  in  Government  circles  through  whom 
they  knew  that  a  disarmament  stroke  was  in- 
tended against  them;  there  were  details  disclosed 
before  the  Commission,  but  probably  these  were 
not  known  to  the  Sinn  Fein  leaders;  only  the  fact 
that  a  disarmament  was  intended.  It  cannot  be 
ascertained  for  certain  by  whom  the  document 
read  at  the  Corporation  Committee  was  forged — 
if  it  was  forged — as  the  authorities  state;  it  may 
have  been  done  by  an  agent  provocateur  of  the 
Police." 

"  But  how  horrible! "  I  said;  "  do  you  mean  to 
tell  me  that  England  stoops  to  employ  the  agent 
provocateur? " 

"  Indeed,  yes ;  they  have  done  plenty  of  work 
in  Ireland.  Undoubtedly  this  was  the  match 
applied  to  inflammable  material;  it  alarmed  the 
Volunteers  throughout  the  country,  and  the  Easter 
Sunday  review  was  used  as  a  favourable  moment 
for  the  conflagration.  Perhaps  not  more  than 
twenty-five  men  in  Ireland  were  in  the  secret; 
otherwise  it  would  not  have  been  so  well  kept. 
It  is  certain  that  Mr.  MacNeill,  the  Chairman, 
was  kept  in  ignorance.  Priests  announced  coun- 
termanding orders  in  Dublin,  and  they  were  pub- 
lished in  the  Dublin  papers.  Much  evil  was  no 


THE  REBELLION  OF  1916  53 

doubt  prevented  by  these  measures  but  the  secret 
Committee  issued  their  own  orders  as  a  counter- 
blast. On  Monday  the  O'Rahilly  returned  to 
Dublin  tired  but  jubilant  at  his  success  in  the 
country  in  preventing  an  uprising.  Later  on  he 
went  into  the  streets  and  found  his  own  comrades 
in  arms;  sadly  he  bid  his  wife  good-bye,  knowing 
he  was  going  to  certain  death,  but  too  gallant  to 
desert  his  comrades  even  in  their  folly.  Rifle  in 
hand,  he  joined  them,  and  more  fortunate  than 
other  leaders,  he  met  his  death  on  the  field  of 
battle.  Hundreds  of  those  who  joined  this  rebel- 
lion knew  nothing  of  what  was  intended,  till  on 
Monday  rifles  were  put  in  their  hands  and  they 
found  themselves  face  to  face  with  the  soldiers 
and  participants  in  an  insurrection." 


CHAPTER  III 

OLD  DUBLIN 

THE  Insurrection  was  lamentable  enough,  but 
luckily  it  spared  the  most  historic  part  of  Dub- 
lin. There  are  many  streets  of  shabby  but  still 
beautiful  old  houses  in  different  quarters  of  the 
city  with  imposing  doors,  richly  carved  brass 
knockers,  beautiful  fanlights,  wide,  generous  steps 
and  even  in  their  sad  decay  an  air  of  hospitality 
lingers  about  them.  They  seem  to  say,  "  I  was 
once  not  only  a  fine  house,  but  a  Home  to  those 
who  loved  me,  and  lavishly  opened  my  doors  to  all 
who  would  enter." 

Moira  House  was  a  very  fine  mansion  with  an 
octagon  room,  made  brilliant  by  inlays  of  mother- 
of-pearl.  John  Wesley  was  much  impressed  by 
its  rainbow  radiance,  and  pronounced  it  the 
finest  room  he  had  ever  seen.  Pamela,  the  wife 
of  Lord  Edward  FitzGerald,  was  a  visitor  in  this 
house,  the  guest  of  Lady  Moira  when  the  news 
was  brought  to  her  of  the  arrest  of  her  husband. 

Burke  was  born  at  12  Arran  Quay,  Dean 
Swift  at  7  Hoey's  Court.  Sir  Philip  Francis, 
whom  many  historical  students  claim  as  the  author 
of  the  letters  of  Junius,  was  born  in  Dublin,  so 

54 


OLD  DUBLIN  55 

was  Michael  Balfe,  Charles  Villiers  Stanford, 
Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  Joseph  Le  Fami — 
never  shall  I  forget,  as  a  little  girl,  the  wild  thrills 
an  Irish  actor  gave  me  by  his  recitation  of 
"  Shamus  O'Brien." 

"And  Shamus  O'Brien  throws  one  last  look  round; 
Then  the  hangman  drew  near,  and  the  people  grew  still, 
Young  faces  turned  sickly  and  warm  hearts  grew  chill, 
And  the  good  priest  has  left  him,  having  said  his  last 

prayer. 

But  the  good  priest  done  more,  for  his  hands  he  unbound, 
And  with  one  daring  spring  Jim  has   leaped   on   the 

ground ! 

Bang !     Bang !  go  the  carbines,  and  clash  go  the  sabres ! 
He's    not   down !   he's    alive   still !   now   stand   to   him, 

neighbours ! 

Through  the  smoke  and  the  horses,  he's  into  the  crowd ! 
By  the  heavens  he  is  free ! " 

What  superlative  joy  that  news  gave  me. 

Thomas  Moore  was  born  at  12  Aungier  Street, 
and  the  insignificant  bust  on  the  house  is  not  even 
kept  clean,  but  his  Irish  Melodies,  known  all  over 
the  English-speaking  world,  will  last  longer  than 
stone  or  marble.  And  I  cannot  at  all  agree  with 
the  critics  who  designate  this  lyrical  poet  as  shal- 
low and  trifling;  personally  I  feel  towards  him, 
as  the  darkies  would  say,  as  if  he  were  my  own 
kin,  for  the  very  first  song  that  I  remember — I 
could  have  been  scarcely  four  years  old — was 


56  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"  The  Light  of  Other  Days."  In  the  warm  sum- 
mer evenings,  my  mother,  dressed  in  a  low-necked 
and  short-sleeved  berage,  with  a  little  lace  cape 
over  her  shoulders,  would  go  among  her  flowers 
at  sundown,  armed  with  a  big  watering-pot,  and 
followed  by  a  swarm  of  little  darkies,  each  carry- 
ing a  little  watering-pot.  After  the  procession 
finished  sprinkling  the  grateful  roses  and  pinks, 
crepe  myrtle  and  jessamine,  making  the  air  fra- 
grant with  a  thousand  spicy  odours,  she  would  step 
on  to  the  long  balcony  and  seat  herself  in  her 
little  rocking-chair,  before  the  wide-open  French 
doors  of  my  nursery,  and  my  father  would  bring 
her  guitar  and  ask  her  to  sing,  and  the  last  words 
floating  me  away  to  happy  dreams  were: 

"Oft  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 

Of  other  days  around  me ; 

The  smiles,  the  tears 

Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken ; 

The  eyes  that  shone 

Now  dimm'd  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken ! " 

And  after  all  these  years  whether  it  be  the  asso- 
ciation of  early  memories,  "  the  tender  grace  of  a 
day  that  is  dead " — for  the  old  South  changes 


OLD  DUBLIN  57 

year  by  year — or  whether  Moore  is  really  a  poet — 
I  love  him  still. 

Molyneaux  House  in  Peter  Street  is  quaint  and 
interesting  and  still  stands.  High  Street  and 
Thomas  Street  are  wide,  and  some  of  the  houses 
are  fine  on  the  outside.  151  Thomas  Street  was 
the  house  of  a  prosperous  wool  merchant;  it  was 
at  midnight,  in  the  guest-chamber,  that  Lord 
Edward  FitzGerald  was  arrested  and  received  his 
fatal  wound.  65  High  Street  is  a  particularly 
interesting  house,  associated  as  it  is  with  the 
memory  of  two  patriots,  for  Sarsfield  was  born 
within  its  walls,  and  Theobald  Wolfe  Tone's  body 
rested  there  after  his  tragic  end.  It  was  in  the 
rebellion  of  1798  that  he  awaited  the  landing  of 
the  French  at  Killala;  when  arrested  he  was  wear- 
ing the  French  uniform,  and  in  this  dress  was 
brought  to  Dublin  for  trial  and  condemned  to 
death.  But  on  the  day  of  his  execution,  his  kins- 
man, Lord  Kilwarden,  who  was  himself  a  Wolfe, 
granted  a  decree  of  Habeas  Corpus  with  an  order 
to  serve  the  writ  at  once.  Curran,  acting  for 
Wolfe  Tone,  feared  that  the  prisoner  might  be 
executed  before  the  order  arrived.  "  Let  the 
Sheriff  hasten  to  the  barracks  and  see  that  he  is 
not  executed,"  said  the  Chief  Justice.  In  a  short 
time  the  messenger  returned  and  said  that  the 
Field  Marshal  had  refused  to  obey.  Lord  Kil- 
warden then  odered  the  Sheriff  and  Provost  Mar- 


58  HERSELF— IRELAND 

shal  to  take  possession  of  Wolfe  Tone,  and  show 
the  order  to  General  Craig.  Notwithstanding 
the  delay  might  mean  reprieve,  Wolfe  Tone  had 
cut  his  throat  with  a  penknife,  rather  than  meet 
death  at  the  hands  of  the  hangman.  The  wound 
was  not  immediately  fatal,  and  when  found  pale 
and  bleeding  he  whispered,  "  I  am  but  a  poor 
anatomist."  The  wound  was  sewn  up,  and  even 
then  his  enemies  desired  his  execution,  but  Lord 
Kilwarden  allowed  his  brave  kinsman  to  die  of 
his  self-inflicted  wounds. 

Fishamble  Street  holds  other  and  more  cheer- 
ful memories,  for  Handel  often  played  the  organ 
at  the  Fishamble  Street  Theatre,  and  conducted 
his  rehearsals  for  the  first  performance  of  The 
Messiah  there.  The  Dublin  Evening  Post  of 
April  15,  1741,  was  kindly  but  tepid  in  its  notices 
of  this  noble  creation: 

"  On  Tuesday  last,"  it  records,  "  Mr.  Handel's 
oratorio  of  The  Messiah  was  performed  at  the 
New  Musick  Hall,  Fishamble  Street.  The  best 
judges  allowed  it  to  be  a  most  finished  piece  of 
musick."  And  it  has  proved  not  only  a  "  finished 
piece  of  musick,"  but  an  inspired  and  immortal 
oratorio.  Handel,  however,  was  satisfied  with 
this  meagre  praise.  He  wrote  to  a  friend  in 
London : 

"  The  nobility  did  me  the  honour  to  make  among 
themselves  a  subscription  for  six  nights  which  did 


OLD  DUBLIN  59 

fill  a  room  of  six  hundred  persons  so  that  I  did 
not  need  to  sell  a  single  ticket  at  the  door,  and, 
without  vanity,  the  performance  was  received  with 
general  approbation." 

Grattan,  the  great  Irish  patriot,  the  son  of  an 
eminent  physician,  was  born  in  Fishamble  Street. 
And  Clarence  Mangan,  the  gifted  and  unhappy 
poet,  was  born  not  many  doors  away  at  No.  3. 
The  delicate  boy  had  a  most  unhappy  childhood 
owing  to  his  father's  severity  and  unpleasant  tem- 
per. James  Mangan  was  very  like  the  father  of 
Jane  Eyre,  who,  to  discipline  his  children  when 
he  found  them  wearing  little  red  shoes,  sent  them 
as  a  present  by  a  friend  of  their  mother's,  ordered 
the  removal  of  their  finery,  and  deaf  to  the  plead- 
ings of  the  two  weeping  little  girls,  placed  the 
treasures  on  a  red-hot  fire  and  burnt  them  to 
ashes.  It  is  a  natural  consequence  for  sensitive 
children  unjustly  punished  to  become  morbid  and 
to  contract  the  habit  of  permanent  unhappiness. 
At  an  early  age  Clarence  Mangan  was  appren- 
ticed to  a  Scrivener,  and  remained  at  this  monoto- 
nous occupation  the  greater  part  of  his  life.  He 
is  described  as  prematurely  old  at  thirty-five,  odd 
in  appearance,  near-sighted,  and  stoop -shouldered, 
but  his  face  was  beautifully  chiselled.  Whenever 
I  cross  St.  Stephen's  Green,  I  make  a  little  detour 
to  pass  by  his  statue  and  give  him  a  friendly  greet- 
ing. If  he  had  written  nothing  else,  "  The  Dark 


60  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Rosaleen,"  would  have  proclaimed  his  genius.  An 
Irish  girl  with  a  plaintive  voice  sang  it  without 
accompaniment  to  me,  and  I  seemed  to  be  listening 
to  the  sad  but  ever  unconquerable  voice  of  Erin's 
ages  of  oppression. 

Belvedere  House,  standing  in  a  fine  position,  is 
one  of  the  most  commanding  of  the  old  Georgian 
houses.  It  overlooks  North  Great  George's 
Street,  that  in  its  day  was  such  a  fashionable  thor- 
oughfare. The  floor  of  the  entrance  hall  is  of 
black  and  white  marble,  and  the  wide  staircase  is 
richly  ornamented  with  a  profusion  of  stucco 
work.  The  Venus,  the  Diana,  and  the  Apollo — 
the  three  great  reception-rooms — take  their  names 
from  their  elaborate  mythological  ceilings  which 
are  boldly  executed.  The  chimney-piece  and  old 
brass  fire-grates  are  of  noble  design,  and  over  the 
mantel  of  the  room  of  Diana  hangs  a  richly 
painted  Dosso  Dossi.  Luckily  for  the  preservation 
of  this  historical  house  the  Jesuits  bought  it  in 
1843,  and  later  the  Rev.  Professor  Thomas  Fin- 
lay — who  has  done  so  much  for  Ireland  in  co- 
operative work  and  the  encouragement  of  manu- 
factures— was  instrumental  in  having  the  orna- 
mentation, which  was  in  bad  condition,  restored. 

I  wonder  if  the  students  ever  see  a  gentle,  un- 
happy ghost  wandering  over  the  house;  for  the 
first  Countess  of  Belvedere,  whose  jealous  hus- 
band suspected  her  of  an  intrigue  with  his  brother, 


OLD  DUBLIN  61 

sent  her  to  his  country  place,  Gaulstown,  and 
there  she  was  incarcerated  as  a  close  prisoner 
for  seventeen  years.  A  dark-haired  girl  of 
twenty-five,  when  she  was  forced  to  enter  her 
lonely  prison,  she  left  it  a  broken-spirited,  white- 
haired  woman  over  forty.  Like  the  prisoners  of 
the  Bastille  she  had  lost  heart  and  courage,  a 
stranger  to  her  children,  life's  dearest  links  broken, 
she  sank  into  a  quiet  melancholy  and  died.  Even 
in  the  beginning  she  had  never  loved  her  husband, 
but  was  persuaded  by  her  parents  into  the  mar- 
riage, and  well  might  she  have  said: 

"  I  go  to  knit  two  clans  together ; 

Our  clan  and  this  clan  unseen  of  yore: — 
Our  clan  fears  nought !  but  I  go,  O  whither  ? 

This  day  I  go  from  my  mother's  door. 

"  He  has  killed  ten  chiefs,  this  chief  that  plights  me, 
His  hand  is  like  that  of  the  giant  Balor; 

But  I  fear  his  kiss,  and  his  beard  affrights  me, 
And  the  great  stone  dragon  above  his  door. 

"  Had  I  daughters  nine  with  me  they  should  tarry ; 

They  should  sing  old  songs ;  they  should  dance   at 

my  door; 
They  should  grind  at  the  quern; — no  need  to  marry; 

O  when  will  this  marriage-day  be  o'er  ?  " 

I  went  through  the  Coombe  one  day,  and  tried 
to  imagine  the  poverty-stricken  quarter  prosperous 
and  populous  as  it  was  when  the  Huguenots  made 


62  HERSELF— IRELAND 

brocades,  paduasoys — which  were  thick  softly 
corded  silks — plain  silks,  and  Flemish  tapestries 
there.  Dr.  Samuel  Madden,  the  friend  of  John- 
son, gave  handsome  prizes  of  £50  and  £25  for  the 
most  perfect  painting  on  silk,  £10  for  the  richest 
velvet,  £10  for  the  finest  coloured  original  tapes- 
try, and  £15  for  the  cleverest  imitation  of  Flemish 
tapestry.  Where  are  all  these  products  from 
Irish  looms  now?  Doubtless  in  other  countries 
treasured  as  heirlooms  from  France  or  Belgium. 
One  piece  at  least  of  beautiful  tapestry,  woven 
by  John  Van  Beaver,  representing  the  Battle  of 
the  Boyne,  hangs  over  the  chimney-piece  in  what 
was  the  House  of  Lords.  But  much  Irish  work 
has  passed  to  other  lands.  The  picturesque  Quays 
are  full  of  curiosity  shops,  and  one  can  cross  and 
recross  the  bridges  over  the  Liffey,  loiter  among 
old  books  and  old  china,  and  pass  down  the  narrow 
lanes  and  alleys.  Smoke  Alley  contained  the 
theatre  where  Mrs.  Siddons,  Mrs.  Kemble,  Miss 
Farren  Garrick,  Peg  Woffington  the  beautiful, 
warm-hearted  Irish  actress,  and  other  lesser  lights 
delighted  Dublin  audiences. 

On  the  Quays  are  the  two  most  picturesque 
buildings  in  Dublin:  The  Four  Courts,  designed 
by  Cooley,  an  Irish  architect,  is  an  imposing  edifice 
of  grey  marble,  a  beautiful  dome  rising  from  the 
centre  of  it;  and  the  lovely  Custom  House  with 
four  fronts.  The  South  Front,  facing  the  river, 


OLD  DUBLIN  63 

is  composed  of  pavilions  at  either  end  and  joined 
to  arcades,  and  united  by  the  centre  ornamentation 
of  figures.  They  lovingly  embrace  each  other, 
and  bear  in  their  hands  emblems  of  peace  and 
liberty.  England  and  Ireland  for  ever  united  by 
peace,  and  above  all  by  liberty.  What  a  satiric 
commentary  in  stone!  The  dome  rises  splendidly 
in  the  centre,  and  is  not  unlike  the  dome  of  the 
Capitol.  Instead  of  our  massive  Goddess  of  Lib- 
erty a  statue  of  Commerce  dominates  it.  The 
keystones  of  the  arches  are  colossal  heads  em- 
blematic of  the  big  rivers  of  Ireland.  And  near 
by,  or  far  away,  it  is  an  interesting  and  archi- 
tecturally most  beautiful  building,  a  lovely  memo- 
rial to  the  memory  of  James  Gandon,  the  English 
architect  who  designed  it.  Sir  Hugh  Lane 
wanted  the  Municipal  Gallery  on  the  Liffey,  but 
the  idea  did  not  meet  with  Dublin's  approval,  so 
the  pictures  are  now  housed  in  Harcourt  Street. 
Why  is  it  that  some  one  scene  or  appearance  in  the 
life  of  a  friend  etches  itself  upon  the  memory, 
as  though  drawn  by  an  indelible  pen!  I  saw 
Hugh  Lane  at  many  distinguished  assemblies  in 
London,  at  receptions,  picture  exhibitions,  in  fine 
houses,  and  for  the  last  time  in  New  York 
the  night  before  he  sailed  on  the  doomed  Lusi- 
tania.  But  the  picture  that  remains  with  per- 
fect distinctness  in  my  memory  of  him,  is  on 
a  day  towards  the  end  of  February.  The  sun 


64  HERSELF— IRELAND 

had  shone  from  early  morning  in  a  cloudless 
sky,  as  though  it  were  June,  and  snowdrops  and 
primroses  had  opened  their  pearl  and  velvet  faces 
to  the  warmth,  until  the  park  was  starred  with 
gold  and  white.  The  budding  trees  looked  almost 
green,  as  I  walked  from  Carlton  House  Terrace, 
through  St.  James'  Park,  by  Victoria,  and  on  to 
Warwick  Square.  The  magnificent  sunset  gave 
fair  promise  for  the  following  day,  banks  of  thin 
white  clouds  were  transformed  to  rose  and  gold  by 
the  strong  departing  rays.  It  was  one  of  those 
soft,  tender  days  when  spring,  treading  on  the 
heels  of  winter,  can  make  even  the  saddest  spirit 
rejoice.  As  I  approached  my  son's  house  I  saw 
a  man,  standing  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  ring  the 
bell.  Under  his  left  arm  was  a  large,  untidy 
bundle,  and  when  near  enough  I  noticed  a  long, 
red  velvet  sleeve  fringed  with  gold,  which  swept  to 
the  end  of  his  light  overcoat.  When  my  eyes 
reached  as  high  as  his  head,  his  hat  was  swept  off 
with  a  grand  bow,  and  there  stood  Hugh  Lane 
laughing  like  a  boy. 

"What  in  the  world ?"  I  asked  him. 

"  Oh,  it's  easily  explained,"  he  said.  "  Toodie 
threatens  not  to  wear  his  fancy  dress  to  the  Chel- 
sea ball  to-night,  so  I  have  brought  him  one  or 
two  costumes  to  see  if  they  will  please  him  any 
better." 

"  Did  you  tie  up  that  bundle  yourself?  "  I  said, 


OLD  DUBLIN  65 

lifting  the  velvet  sleeve  and  laying  it  across  the 
torn  brown  paper. 

He  laughed  again.  "  That  is  why  people  have 
been  smiling  and  looking  at  me  as  I  walked  along. 
It  was  not  my  handsome  self,  but  my  handsome 
sleeve  which  attracted  their  attention." 

Then  the  door  opened,  he  was  shown  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  I  went  upstairs  to  try  on  a 
white  wig. 

And  that  is  how  I  always  see  him,  as  a  good- 
natured,  laughing  boy,  holding  a  bundle  of  gay 
tinsel,  velvet,  and  silk  under  his  arm,  happy  in 
doing  a  favour  for  a  friend. 

What  more  beautiful  memorial  has  any  man 
than  the  Municipal  Gallery  of  Dublin,  which  is 
for  ever  stamped  with  Hugh  Lane's  manifest 
spirit  of  generosity?  He  not  only  gave  pictures 
of  great  value  himself,  but  he  so  impressed  his 
generous  spirit  upon  his  friends,  that  they  too 
gave  their  best.  Not  to  the  gallery  really,  but, 
imbued  by  his  ardent  enthusiasm,  to  him.  It  is 
easy  enough  for  all  of  us  who  have  the  power  and 
the  means  to  give,  but  to  induce  generosity  in 
other  people  is  quite  a  different  matter.  For  that 
your  own  spirit  must  be  free,  genuine,  sincere,  and 
filled  with  buoyant  and  communicable  enthusiasm. 
The  Municipal  Gallery  ought  really  to  have  its 
name  changed  to  Hugh  Lane's  Gift  Gallery.  It 
would  better  serve  to  explain  his  remarkable 


i  66  HERSELF— IRELAND 

genius.  And  not  only  was  he  generous  in  gifts, 
but  he  was  generous  of  something  far  more 
precious,  his  time,  which,  with  his  great  talent,  was 
of  inestimable  value  to  the  world  at  large.  A 
member  of  his  family  told  me  that  he  often  said 
at  the  end  of  a  long  London  day,  "  I  am  tired 
to-night,  and  I've  not  had  an  hour  to  attend  to  my 
own  affairs,  from  early  morning  till  late  evening, 
every  moment  has  been  given  to  looking  at  pic- 
tures, either  that  my  friends  wanted  to  buy  or 
wanted  to  sell,  and  pronouncing  judgment  upon 
them."  If  the  owner  of  a  picture  was  poor  and 
needy,  he  would  travel  miles  to  see  it,  and  the 
smallest  merit  induced  him  to  pay  a  fair  price. 
To  the  more  humble-minded  of  his  friends  who 
bought,  instead  of  pictures,  enamels  and  bronzes, 
screens  or  lacquer,  porcelain  or  delft,  he  was  quite 
as  kind  and  lavish  in  his  advice  to  them. 

One  afternoon  when  having  tea  with  Miss 
Purser  in  the  drawing-room  in  Mespil  House 
with  its  beautiful  Georgian  ceiling,  I  admired  a 
finely  carved  and  coloured  coromandle  screen. 
My  hostess  said,  "Yes,  it  is  beautiful;  I  bought 
it  on  the  advice  of  Hugh  Lane  who  went  with 
me  to  see  it." 

And  many  a  young,  struggling  artist  has  been 
helped  and  heartened  by  his  appreciative  criti- 
cism and  understanding  suggestions.  With  his 
strange,  divining  eye,  he  could  see  the  promise 


PORTRAIT  OF  AN  IRISH  LADY 


OLD  DUBLIN  67 

and  the  meaning  of  a  half -finished  picture,  and 
almost  portend  its  future.  One  of  his  great  and 
most  amusing  and  unusual  gifts  was  his  vision 
of  penetration,  the  power  of  seeing  through  and 
under  layers  of  paint.  If  a  beautiful  lady,  as 
sometimes  happened,  even  one  who  had  been 
painted  by  Romney  or  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
had  later  a  fancy  for  a  more  modern  costume, 
Hugh  Lane  discerned  her  restless  vanity,  and 
would  direct  a  picture  restorer  very  carefully 
to  work  and  remove  a  billowing  crinoline  over- 
laid with  taffeta  flounces,  to  find  underneath 
it  a  white  muslin  and  blue  ribbons.  Or  a  stiff, 
high-bodiced  brocade,  the  costume  of  another 
changeable  dame,  would  conceal  the  classical  folds 
of  blue  gauze  and  fair,  drooping  shoulders.  He 
even  removed  elaborate  headgear,  mountains  of 
waving  feathers  and  amazing  coiffures  to  find  the 
hair  simply  dressed,  which  made  the  charming 
face  more  charming  still. 

The  first  room  of  the  Gift  Gallery  is  called 
the  Irish  Room,  as  the  pictures  in  it  are 
painted  by  distinguished  artists  of  Irish  birth  or 
descent.  There  are  two  landscapes  by  the  younger 
Nathaniel  Hone,  "  Malahide  Sands  "  on  a  golden 
evening  with  a  wide  sky  full  of  light  and  a  fresh- 
ening wind,  and  "  The  Donegal  Coast."  Sir  Hugh 
Lane  thought  so  highly  of  the  talent  of  this  artist 
that  he  presented  one  of  his  pictures  to  the 


68  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Luxembourg.  John  Lavery  has  given  a  dis- 
tinguished portrait  of  "  An  Austrian  Lady  "  in 
a  shining  satin  gown  that  you  feel  would  be  silken 
smooth  to  the  touch.  A  young  girl  with  a  string 
of  iridescent  pearls  around  her  neck,  and  a  vivid 
paroquet  on  her  shoulder,  seated  at  an  embroidery 
frame  of  glowing  colours,  is  the  gift  of  J.  J.  Shan- 
non. "  The  Winged  Horse  "  by  George  Russell 
(A.E.),  a  finely  imaginative  picture,  is  a  Lane 
gift.  "  The  Fish  Market,"  by  Walter  Osborne, 
is  not  only  arresting  as  an  exceedingly  fine  pic- 
ture full  of  movement  and  opalescent  colour,  but 
it  depicts  the  picturesque  old  Fish  Market  in  Pat- 
rick Street,  which  is  now  demolished.  William 
Orpen  has  contributed  what  he  calls  "  Reflec- 
tions," a  most  brilliant  study  of  Chinese  and  Japa- 
nese porcelains.  A  bunch  of  anemones  by  Gerald 
Chowne  is  rich  in  tone,  and  like  the  flowers  velvety 
in  texture.  Although  every  amateur  begins  by 
painting  roses  or  pansies,  there  is  really  nothing 
more  difficult  to  reproduce  than  the  life  and  deli- 
cate appearance  of  a  flower.  Miss  Cecilia  Harri- 
son, a  Dublin  artist,  has  contributed  an  expressive 
and  clever  portrait  of  herself.  Mark  Fisher  is 
represented  by  his  picture  of  "  The  Bathers," 
which  won  the  gold  medal  at  the  St.  Louis  Ex- 
hibition, and  is  probably  the  artist's  finest  picture. 
Although  he  was  born  in  Ireland,  America  claims 
the  gaiety  of  his  sunshine,  and  France  his  bold 


OLD  DUBLIN  69 

technique.  There  are  two  pictures,  "  Towards  the 
Night  and  Winter  "  and  "  The  Study  of  an  Old 
Woman,"  by  Frank  O'Neara,  whom  the  gods 
loved,  for  he  died  young.  There  is  a  luminous 
study  by  Ambrose  McEvoy,  "  Sheep-shearing  "  by 
Dermod  O'Brien,  "An  Oriental  Group,"  charm- 
ingly painted  by  Chinnery.  "  A  Tea  Party  "  by 
B.  Bellingham  Smith.  "  The  Stranger  "  by  Nor- 
man Gartin.  "The  Building  of  the  Ship"  by 
Alexander  Roche.  "  Meditations  "  by  Mrs.  C.  J. 
MacCarthy.  "A  Flood  in  the  Dargle  "  by  J. 
Vincent  Duffy,  and  two  interesting  pictures,  "  My 
Daughter"  and  "The  Bird  Market"  by  John 
Butler  Yeates. 

While  these  finish  the  notable  Irish  Room,  it  is 
only  the  beginning  of  this  entirely  interesting  and 
carefully  chosen  collection,  which  includes  ex- 
amples of  the  art  of  many  continental  painters. 
A  noticeable  bust  is  that  of  George  Bernard  Shaw 
by  Rodin.  The  chisel  of  the  great  master  reveals 
the  author  at  his  best,  for  the  face  is  not  only  in- 
tellectual, thoughtful,  and  distinguished,  but  the 
humour  in  the  hair  slightly  raised  at  each  side 
suggests  a  gentlemanly  faun. 

It  does  not  seem  possible  that  a  city  can  contain 
such  beauty  as  the  Four  Courts,  the  Custom 
House,  the  Municipal  Gallery,  and  at  the  same 
time  the  repulsive  ugliness  of  the  slums. 

It  is  said  that  the  Insurrection  in  Dublin  can  be 


70  HERSELF— IRELAND 

traced  not  indirectly  but  directly  to  the  slums,  and 
having  seen  them  I  can  well  believe  that  such  a 
poisonous  ulcer  would  make  any  wild  upheaval  in 
the  blood  possible.  The  heart-rending  sights  in 
this  district  brand  themselves  upon  the  memory. 
The  largest  national  school  is  well-built,  light, 
airy,  and  comfortably  warm — but  the  children,  oh, 
the  children!  The  wretched,  hungry,  thinly  clad, 
shoeless,  stockingless  children!  I  saw  several  boys 
wearing  only  one  garment,  a  man's  coat  with  the 
sleeves  cut  short,  a  belt  round  the  waist,  and  the 
collar  pinned  together  with  a  safety  pin.  The 
little  fellows  dressed  in  this  way  looked  at  me 
with  self-conscious  shame,  as  if  I  could  see  through 
their  miserable  garments  to  their  pitiful  nakedness. 
What  sort  of  a  future  is  the  State  preparing  for 
these  children?  What  has  life  given  them  but 
hunger,  cold,  and  mortification?  Between  these 
wretched  waifs  and  carefully  nurtured,  well-fed, 
happy,  careless  children,  full  of  the  joy  of  life 
yawns  a  black  abyss.  They  live  in  another  world. 
And,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  greater  depths  of 
poverty  are  reached  than  the  one  ragged  coat. 
There  are  children  with  no  clothes  at  all.  A  doc- 
tor told  me  he  had  been  hurriedly  summoned  to  a 
sick  call,  and  when  he  climbed  five  pairs  of  stairs 
to  a  garret  room,  it  was  perfectly  bare  except  for 
an  old  mattress  on  the  floor,  which  had  been  slit  at 
the  top,  and  in  which  were  lying  three  children 


OLD  DUBLIN  71 

stark  naked,  one  of  them  very  ill.  Whether  the 
mother  was  out  trying  to  get  work  or  drink  he  did 
not  know.  Many  of  the  children  that  I  saw  at  the 
school  looked  thin  and  frail,  but,  even  clothed  in 
one  garment,  others  were  ruddy  and  healthy;  pre- 
sumably they  are  the  survival  of  the  fittest,  as  the 
mortality  of  infants  and  children  is  appalling  in 
Dublin.  The  teachers  in  the  national  schools  are 
doing  noble  work,  but  it  is  against  horrible  odds. 
They  know  what  would  help  heal  this  festering 
sore,  but  are  in  no  position  to  speak.  Politics, 
preference,  and  public  houses  form  too  strong  a 
combination  against  them.  They  can  only  appeal 
to  the  children  by  example,  and  give  an  incentive 
to  order,  decency,  and  cleanness.  A  large  pink 
ribbon  rosette  is  pinned  on  the  breast  of  the  clean- 
est child  in  the  class.  One  little  girl  of  five  was 
brought  forwards  in  a  stiffly  starched  pinafore 
adorned  with  the  badge  of  honour.  She  looked 
pale  and  chilly.  The  teacher  said,  "  There  is  very 
little  under  that  clean  apron,"  and  certainly  two 
scant  cotton  garments  cannot  give  much  warmth 
on  a  bitter  day  in  January.  At  noontime  a  cer- 
tain number  of  children  who  are  literally  starving 
for  food  are  provided  with  cups  of  cocoa  and  gen- 
erous slices  of  bread  and  butter. 

A  young  priest  whose  hands  seemed  to  touch 
half-a-dozen  heads  at  once  of  the  children  who 
clustered  about  him,  said  to  me,  "  Many  of  them 


72  HERSELF— IRELAND 

will  not  have  a  single  mouthful  to-day  except  this 
bread  and  cocoa.  For  myself,  I  rarely  have  a 
penny  in  my  pocket,  if  I  wanted  to  buy  a  cup  of 
tea  I  could  not.  In  this  freezing  weather  the 
poverty  which  surrounds  us  cannot  wait,  for  delay 
often  means  death.  A  woman  came  to  me  last 
night  and  said,  '  Father,  Mrs.  McCarthy  has  a 
new-born  baby,  if  she  doesn't  get  food  for  herself 
she  cannot  nurse  it,  and  the  child  will  die.'  I  was 
obliged  to  say,  '  My  good  woman,  go  away  and 
leave  me  in  peace,  to-night  I  have  not  one  farth- 
ing in  the  world.  I  will  see  the  woman  in  the 
morning.'  I  give  all  I  have  and  all  I  can  beg, 
and  yet  the  children  must  go  hungry." 

"  What,"  I  said,  "  makes  this  overwhelming 
poverty  among  these  people?" 

"  Want  of  work,  poor  wages,  but  above  all 
drink,"  he  said.  "  You  have  seen  their  places  of 
abode? " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  and  they  are  not  fit  to  shelter 
decent  animals.  The  owner  of  a  race-horse  would 
not  let  it  remain  for  half-an-hour  where  these 
women  and  children  spend  their  lives.  They  have 
neither  necessities  nor  decencies.  The  housing  of 
the  poor  is  a  crying  injustice,  not  only  to  Dublin 
but  to  the  Imperial  Government." 

"  Then,"  said  the  priest,  "  as  you  have  seen 
their  surroundings  you  will  scarcely  wonder  that 
these  poor  creatures  go  to  the  public  houses  where 


OLD  DUBLIN  73 

they  can  have  warmth  and  light  and  sit  on  a  clean 
chair,  but  almost  invariably  they  drink  too  much, 
and  their  condition  then  becomes  hopeless.  I  am 
setting  my  face  against  the  public  houses  imme- 
diately about  us,  and  more  than  likely  on  this 
account  I  shall  be  removed  from  my  work,  but 
whatever  the  outcome,  it  is  a  question  of  principle. 
I  must  go  on." 

I  looked  at  his  strong  face  and  said,  "  Father, 
that  jaw  of  yours  ought  to  accomplish  something, 
it  indicates  grip  and  courage." 

"  Both  are  needed  here,"  he  said. 

The  slums  are  a  result  of  consequences.  The 
consequences  of  human  nature  at  its  worst.  They 
represent  the  injustice,  cruelty,  indifference,  and 
ruthlessness  of  the  rich  to  the  poor,  the  powerful 
to  the  weak.  They  are  a  shrieking  reproach  to 
mankind,  and  a  monster  indictment  against  pub- 
licans, the  public  houses,  and  the  corporation. 
Thank  God,  O  thank  God!  that  such  a  state  of 
things  could  not  exist  in  my  own  free  country  of 
yellow  journalism,  for  newspapers  would  get  at 
the  root  of  the  evil,  and  cry  their  knowledge  from 
the  housetops.  Women  would  form  themselves 
into  meetings  and  committees,  money  would  flow, 
and  be  properly  applied  to  the  cure  of  the  can- 
cerous growth  that  is  destroying  the  life  and  self- 
respect  of  Dublin.  There  are  slums  in  New  York, 
of  course,  and  other  cities,  but  nothing  that  ap- 


74  HERSELF— IRELAND 

preaches  Dublin  in  the  horror  and  dirt  of  its  pov- 
erty. And  there  is  scarcely  a  newspaper  or  a  man 
in  Ireland  that  dare  lift  a  voice  against  the  dis- 
tillers or  publicans,  least  of  all  the  politician  whom 
they  send  to  Parliament;  he  is  muzzled  and  obliged 
to  play  into  the  ruthless  hands  of  the  men  who 
ruin  the  poor,  and  are  directly  responsible  for  the 
starvation  and  death  of  many  children.  Publicans 
are  not  impulsive  murderers;  they  destroy  by 
inches  and  slow  methods  the  bodies  and  the  souls 
of  those  who  enrich  them.  It  is  prophesied  that 
in  twenty-five  years  every  saloon  in  every  State  in 
the  Union  will  be  closed.  If  this  is  done,  then 
indeed  America  will  be  the  greatest  country  in  the 
world.  I  have  only  seen  one  paper  in  Ireland  that 
has  dared  to  speak  in  favour  of  temperance;  it  is 
edited  by  a  man  of  unswerving  honesty  and  un- 
flinching courage,  George  Russell,  "  A.E.,"  who 
says: 

"We  must  say,  though  we  never  liked  autoc- 
racy, that  we  envied  Russia  its  autocrat,  when  we 
read  the  letter  printed  on  the  Russian  Budget  and 
prohibition.  In  Russia  for  the  sake  of  human  effi- 
ciency and  decency,  the  State  sacrificed  a  revenue 
of  £90,000,000  a  year,  and  no  intoxicating  liquors 
containing  more  than  one  and  a  half  per  cent,  of 
alcohol  are  allowed  to  be  manufactured  or  sold. 
This  prohibition  is  probably  the  most  beneficent 
action  any  autocrat  took  since  an  ancestor  of  the 


OLD  DUBLIN  75 

present  Czar  emancipated  the  serfs,  and  the  Rus- 
sian Duma  passed  a  law  making  prohibition  per- 
manent. Russia  will  be  a  dry  Empire,  in  future, 
and  we  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  when  its  brains 
are  no  longer  muddled  with  vodka,  it  will  become 
one  of  the  most  progressive  nations  in  the  world. 
We  in  Ireland  have  signalised  the  War  by  in- 
creasing expenditure  on  drink  by  two  millions. 
The  world  tragedy  has  been  celebrated  by  us  by 
the  expenditure  of  fifteen  million  pounds  spent  on 
alcohol  in  one  year.  Fifteen  million  pounds  on 
drink,  when  industry  and  agriculture  are  starved 
for  want  of  capital  and  a  body  like  the  Agricul- 
tural Organisation  Society  finds  it  difficult  to  get 
the  few  thousand  a  year  it  requires  to  carry  on  its 
work  of  national  organisation  of  agriculture.  Fif- 
teen million  pounds  spent  in  muddling  our  wits 
and  suppressing  the  soul  of  God  breathed  into 
man,  in  one  small  country  with  a  population  of 
four  million  people.  Our  politicians  are  afraid  of 
their  lives  to  hint  at  enmity  to  this  beastly  trade! 
Men  who  won't  unite  or  consult  with  each  other 
for  the  good  of  their  country,  will  unite  cordially 
for  its  evil,  so  that  the  devil  may  always  be  on 
tap  in  pints  and  pots,  in  bottle  and  in  barrel  for 
all  who  require  him.  We  wonder  whether  any  of 
the  galaxy  of  autocrats  created  by  Mr.  Lloyd- 
George  will  have  the  courage  to  prohibit  the 
sale  of  alcohol  in  these  islands?  The  unmaking 


76  HERSELF— IRELAND 

of  the  distilleries  would  be  the  making  of  the 
people." 

Ireland  can  be  quite  certain  none  of  Mr.  Lloyd- 
George's  autocrats  will  have  the  courage  to  pro- 
hibit the  abolition  or  sale  of  alcohol.  And  not  a 
single  Irish  member  of  Parliament  would  dare 
wage  war  against  the  distilleries  of  Ireland. 

A.  M.  Sullivan,  writing  of  the  Temperance 
movement,  under  Father  Mathew  in  1845,  said: 

"  That  never  had  a  people  made  within  the 
same  space  of  time  such  strides  from  hardship  to 
comparative  comfort,  from  improvidence  to  thrift, 
from  the  crimes  of  inebriate  passion  to  the  ordered 
habits  of  sobriety  and  industry.  It  did  not  remove 
the  deep-lying  political  causes  of  Irish  poverty  and 
crime;  but  it  brought  to  the  humblest  help,  it 
banished  from  thousands  of  homes  afflictions  that 
politics  could  neither  create  nor  cure,  it  diffused 
self-respect  and  self-reliance  among  the  people. 
We  all  noted  its  influence,  not  only  in  their  per- 
sonal habits,  but  in  dress,  in  manners,  and  in  the 
neatness  and  tidiness  of  their  homes.  The  magis- 
tracy and  police  told  of  crime  greatly  diminished. 
The  clergy  told  of  churches  better  filled  with 
decent  worshippers.  Traders  rejoiced  to  find  how 
vast  was  the  increase  in  expenditure  on  articles  of 
food  and  clothing  or  of  home  or  personal  com- 
forts. It  was  convincing  to  find  that  the  annual 
committals  to  prison  in  the  seven  years  from  1839 


OLD  DUBLIN  77 

to  1845,  with  a  rapidly  increasing  population, 
showed  a  steady  decrease  from  twelve  thousand  to 
seven  thousand;  that  the  capital  sentences  in  each 
year  declined  gradually  from  sixty-six  to  four- 
teen; and  that  the  penal  convictions  sank  from 
nine  hundred  in  1839  to  five  hundred  in  1845." 
And  the  same  result  would  be  found  to-day  if 
a  temperance  movement  swept  over  Ireland. 
Drink  is  a  strong  and  slimy  web  which  covers  the 
entire  country,  and  no  courageous  knight-errant 
will  rise  up  with  righteous  sword  to  cut  its  veno- 
mous threads. 

The  Homestead,  edited  by  George  Russell,  is  a 
high-minded,  courageous  paper,  animated  by  lofty 
ideals  to  benefit  mankind.  With  capital  behind 
it,  the  good  it  might  accomplish  is  limitless; 
unfortunately  capitalists  are  not  idealists,  and 
so  the  slums  of  Dublin  and  other  wrongs  remain 
unrighted. 

It  says  much  for  Dublin  that  not  even  the 
slums,  when  one  gets  away  from  them,  can  affect 
its  charm.  The  pale  silvery  grey  skies,  the  sweet 
green  even  in  mid-winter  of  the  peaceful  squares, 
the  leisurely  approach  of  the  public  vehicles,  noth- 
ing is  hurried  in  Dubh'n.  Running  quickly  to  catch 
a  tram,  the  conductor  notices  my  plump  propor- 
tions and  calls  out,  "  Ah,  sure,  don't  hurry,  lady, 
we'll  wait  for  you."  The  same  thing  would  have 
been  said  to  me  in  New  Orleans,  or  in  Charleston, 


78  HERSELF— IRELAND 

by  a  tram  conductor  there.  Heaven  bless  them, 
and  all  people  who  wait  for  us — pleasantly. 

Another  day  I  had  lunched  with  a  friend  at 
Kingstown  and  found  at  the  station  that  my 
ticket  had  vanished. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  but  I've  lost  my  ticket,"  I  said 
to  the  man  at  the  gate,  "what  are  you  going  to 
do  with  me? " 

"  Sure,  what  can  I  do  wid  yez,  lady,"  said  the 
man,  "  but  pass  yez  through,  an'  say  no  more 
about  it?" 

And  it  was  in  Dublin  that  I  met  a  waiter  who 
refused  a  tip!  I  often  think  I've  expected  too 
much  of  life,  but  I  certainly  never  expected  to 
meet  a  waiter  who  would  refuse  a  tip!  Such  an 
experience  convinces  me  more  than  a  sheaf  of 
literature,  of  the  uncalculating  generosity  of  the 
Irishman.  Think  of  a  waiter  in  the  dead  of  night 
refusing  a  perfectly  good  two-shilling  piece  from 
a  lady  whom  he  was  never  to  see  again.  And 
thus  it  happened : 

I  was  dining  with  Sir  John  and  Lady  O'Con- 
nell  at  Kilkenny,  and  though  my  subconscious  man 
advised  me  against  it,  they  had  no  great  difficulty 
in  persuading  me  to  take  a  late  train.  The  com- 
pany was  agreeable,  and  as  there  were  none  of 
them  coming  to  town,  naturally  they  were  opti- 
mistic about  my  finding  a  cab  at  the  station,  but 
the  station  and  street  were  as  empty  of  cabs  as 


OLD  DUBLIN  79 

Venice.  The  night  was  rather  dark,  and  even  in 
the  daylight  my  sense  of  location  was  vague.  I 
looked  about,  and  asked  a  man  the  way  to  the 
Shelbourne.  He  was  just  tipsy  enough  to  be  too 
obliging,  and  said  he  would  show  me  the  way.  I 
declined  the  offer — crossed  the  street — it  was  then 
nearly  midnight — and  rang  the  bell  of  a  small 
hotel.  The  porter  who  answered  the  door  tele- 
phoned for  a  taxi,  but  they  were  all  out,  and 
the  man  in  the  garage  said  it  might  be  a  long  time 
before  any  of  them  came  in.  I  asked  was  there 
a  waiter  who  would  see  me  safely  to  the  Shel- 
bourne. "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  a  man  who  lived  in 
Kildare  Street,"  would  change  his  coat  and  be 
ready  to  escort  me  in  a  moment.  Presently  a 
tall,  pink-faced  young  man  appeared,  speaking 
with  a  tremendous  brogue,  and  we  started  for 
the  Hotel. 

"  Lady,  you  look  like  an  American  lady  who 
used  to  come  to  Killarney.  Are  you  an  American 
lady? " 

"  I  am,"  I  said.  "  Have  you  ever  thought  of 
going  to  America? " 

"  That's  the  dearest  wish  of  me  heart,  an'  'tis 
to  America  I'm  goin'  the  minute  the  war's  over." 

"  I  wish,"  I  said,  looking  at  his  fine  physique, 
"more  young  Irishmen  would  go  to  the  war." 

"  Tim  wint,"  he  said;  "  he  was  killed  at  Ypres." 

"  Was  he  your  brother? "  I  asked. 


80  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"Yes,  he  was  the  oldest  of  the  flock;  he  was 
more  like  me  Mother  than  anny  of  us.  Tim  cud 
dance  the  ould  Irish  dances,  an'  he  was  a  great 
wun  for  the  songs;  me  Mother  was  too  when  we 
was  childer;  an'  he  played  the  fiddle  in  a  way  to 
draw  the  Good  People  from  the  mountains  to 
listen  to  him.  It  was  a  great  blow  to  me  Mother 
whin  Tim  wint  an*  'listed  in  the  Dublin  Fusiliers. 
I  was  goin',  but  me  Mother  put  her  apron  over 
her  head,  an'  rocked  an'  cried,  an'  wouldn't  un- 
cover the  poor  face  on  her,  till  I  promised  to  stay 
in  Ireland." 

"What  do  you  think  of  Conscription? "  I  said. 
"  What  would  you  do  then? " 

"Ah,  well,"  he  said;  "sure  if  they  compelled 
me  to  go  I'd  go  willingly,  so  I  would,  for  then 
me  Mother  could  say  nothin.'  " 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said,  "  why  do  you  want  so  much 
to  go  to  America;  you  will  have  to  leave  your 
Mother  then? " 

"  Mary's  there,"  he  said ;  "  me  friend  Mary 
O'Hagan,  an'  she  says  it's  the  grandest  place,  an' 
plenty  of  money  to  be  made.  She's  in  a  grand 
shop,  an'  she's  savin'  a  hundred  pounds  an'  more. 
She  do  make  dresses  most  beautiful,  she  learned 
her  trade  in  Cork." 

"Where  is  she?"  I  asked.  "In  what  part  of 
America? " 

"  Mitchigan,"   he   said.     "  Detroit,    Mitchigan. 


OLD  DUBLIN  81 

She's  with  her  brother  an'  his  wife.  They  do  be 
havin'  a  grand  house  them  two,  for  he's  a  builder 
he  is." 

"And  is  Mary  your  sweetheart?"  I  asked.  I 
could  see  him  blush  as  we  passed  under  a  street- 
lamp. 

"  There's  a  kindness  bechune  us,"  he  said.  "  A 
great  kindness  bechune  us  two;  there  has  been — 
since  me  an'  Mary  was  no  more  than  fourteen 
years  old — me  Mother  loves  Mary  too.  She's  a 
grand  girl  indeed  is  Mary." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  I  said.  "  And  I  hope  you 
will  both  be  happy  in  my  country,  which  has 
proved  a  happy  home  for  so  many  Irish  people. 
Good-night,  and  thank  you."  I  held  out  the  two 
shillings. 

"  Good-night,  lady,"  he  said.  "  I'm  pleased  to 
have  been  of  service  to  you,"  and  with  a  grand 
sweep  of  his  hat,  and  a  careless  glance  towards 
the  bright  coin,  he  vanished  into  the  night. 

Perhaps  he  refused  the  money  because  I  came 
from  Mary's  country — how  soon  the  Irish  with 
appreciative  understanding  adopt  America  as  their 
own — with  "  a  kindness  between  them,  a  great 
kindness."  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  heard  the 
expression,  and  how  tender  it  is — he  is  sure  to 
follow  Mary,  and  one  day  they  will  have  a  little 
house  all  their  own,  built  by  the  builder  in 
"  Mitchigan." 


CHAPTER  IV 

DEAN  SWIFT 

He  now  would  praise  esteem  approve, 
But  understood  not  what  was  love. 

THE  Cathedral  of  St.  Patrick  has  had  a 
chequered  past.  It  was  founded  as  early  as  1190. 
The  great  tower  of  Irish  limestone,  with  walls 
ten  feet  thick,  was  built  by  Archbishop  Minot,  in 
1362.  After  various  dangers,  dilapidations,  and 
vicissitudes,  the  complete  restoration  was  begun 
in  1865.  The  ground  plan  is  said  to  be  of  a 
beautiful  proportion,  and  the  great  Latin  Cross 
demonstrates  a  mind  of  wonderful  mathematical 
knowledge  and  accuracy;  being  finer  and  more  ex- 
quisitely exact  than  any  Cathedral  in  England. 
The  interior  is  adorned  with  numerous  monuments, 
brasses,  and  tablets,  among  them  an  imposing 
fourteenth  century  statue  of  St.  Patrick.  Fur- 
ther away,  a  little  crowd  of  people,  seventeen  in 
all,  piously  kneeling  together,  are  described  as 
Sir  Edward  Fitton,  his  wife,  and  family.  He  was 
President  of  Thomond  under  Queen  Elizabeth. 
A  monument  to  Dame  Mary  Sentleger  describes 
a  full  life,  inasmuch  as  during  her  thirty-seven 


DEAN  SWIFT  83 

years,  the  lady  provided  herself  with  four  hus- 
bands. It  is  to  be  hoped  the  manner  of  their 
death  was  enquired  into  before  her  prowess  in 
disposing  of  them  was  recorded. 

There  are  banners  and  escutcheons  to  the 
Knights  of  St.  Patrick,  tributes  to  the  Royal 
Irish,  who  fought  so  bravely  at  Sebastopol,  and 
a  finely  carved  Celtic  Cross  to  the  memory  of  the 
heroes  of  the  South  African  campaign.  There  is  a 
bas-relief  to  Turlough  Carolan,  the  last  of  the 
Irish  bards;  I  daresay  the  good-looking  blue-eyed 
Carolans  of  California  are  his  descendants;  but 
nothing  interested  me  so  much  as  the  bust  of  Dean 
Swift,  his  epitaph  to  Stella,  his  epitaph  of  him- 
self, and  his  autograph  contained  in  a  little  glass 
case. 

When  I  was  a  little  girl,  the  most  condemnatory 
word  applied  in  the  South  to  a  person,  or  persons, 
was  "  Yahoo,"  or  "  Yahoos."  I  have  known  a 
good  many  in  my  life,  and  they  inevitably  remain 
as  they  were  born,  Yahoos.  Dean  Swift  enriched 
the  language  with  other  words  equally  useful, 
Liliputian  and  Brobdingnagian,  for  example.  My 
father  insisted  upon  my  reading  at  a  very  early 
age  Scott's  Swift,  and  I  remember  exactly  how 
the  books  of  Addison,  Swift,  Steele,  Dryden, 
Pope,  Grey,  and  Arbuthnot  were  bound,  and  on 
which  shelf  of  the  library  they  stood. 

My  beloved  father,  who  was  himself  a  man  of 


84  HERSELF— IRELAND 

great  independence,  used  to  tell  the  story  of  the 
Lord  Treasurer,  who  at  one  of  his  levys  asked 
Swift  to  present  Parnell,  and  he  replied  with  a 
brilliant  smile,  "  A  man  of  genius,  my  Lord,  al- 
though you  may  not  realise  it,  is  superior  to  a 
Lord  in  station,  and,  therefore,  I  will  leave  you  to 
seek  out  Dr.  Parnell  and  introduce  yourself." 
Lord  Oxford  took  the  reprimand  good-naturedly, 
and  with  his  Treasurer's  staff  went  from  room  to 
room  until  he  discovered  his  guest. 

On  another  occasion,  when  the  Duke  of  Buck-, 
inghamshire,  a  nobleman  who  bristled  with  pride, 
asked  to  be  introduced  to  him,  the  Dean  raised  his 
handsome  head,  and  said: 

"  I  regret  that  at  present  it  is  impossible.  The 
Duke  has  not  yet  made  sufficient  advances  to  me." 

I  suppose  on  account  of  his  reputation  for  wit, 
his  sarcastic  humour  was  borne  with  patience.  If 
he  had  lived  in  the  present  day,  there  would  have 
been  no  unwise  insurrection,  he  would  have  been 
the  leader  of  the  Clan-na-Gael  or  Sinn  Fein,  or 
of  both,  as  the  text  of  all  his  eloquence  was  Ire- 
land for  the  Irish.  What  a  pity  that  he  could  not 
have  been  one  of  those  souls  waiting  for  birth,  so 
poetically  described  by  Maeterlinck.  With  the 
fearless  genius  of  Dean  Swift  now  at  the  helm  of 
affairs  in  Ireland,  she  might  have  had  independ- 
ence, respect,  and  recognition  as  a  nation. 

It  is  two  hundred  years  ago,  in  1719,  that  he 


DEAN  SWIFT  85 

wrote  a  pamphlet  entitled  "  The  Proposals  for 
the  Universal  Use  of  Irish  Manufactures,"  its 
object  being  to  induce  the  people  of  Ireland  to  use 
only  wearing  apparel,  furniture,  carpets,  and  rugs 
manufactured  in  the  country,  and  to  close  their 
markets  against  everything  wearable  imported 
from  England.  What  he  said  seemed  an  echo  of 
the  Irish  House  of  Commons,  but  it  was  in  reality 
a  stinging  and  bitter  protest  against  the  inhumanity 
and  injustice  which  had  characterised  the  policy 
of  England  towards  Ireland  since  1665.  It  was  a 
clarion  note  to  the  nation  at  any  cost  to  assert 
herself. 

"  Burn  everything  from  England  except  the 
coal!  "  he  exhorted  them. 

In  1660,  the  prospects  of  Ireland  looked  fair  and 
bright,  the  soil  was  fertile,  the  pasture  lands  rich 
and  beautiful.  There  were  many  rivers  which 
were  navigable,  and  the  ports  and  harbours — 
alas,  now  lonely  and  deserted — were  the  envy  of 
maritime  Europe.  Farm  produce,  fat  cattle,  and 
grain  were  sent  to  England,  and  fine  woollen 
goods  were  being  rapidly  manufactured.  There 
was  hopeful  talk  and  plans  of  sending  ships  laden 
with  goods  to  the  Colonies.  But  either  England 
feared  Ireland's  commercial  relations  with  other 
countries,  or,  jealous  of  her,  she  deliberately  pro- 
ceeded to  destroy  all  her  fair  prospects.  The 
wool  trade  was  ruined,  industrial  people  were 


86  HERSELF— IRELAND 

thrown  upon  the  parish  for  charity,  and  emigra- 
tion— which,  alas,  has  never  since  ceased — sent 
the  strong  and  the  able-bodied  from  the  coun- 
try. With  a  prophetic  realisation  of  Ireland's 
cruel  future,  and  a  resentment  that  his  own  bril- 
liant efforts  in  her  behalf  had  failed,  it  was  no 
wonder  the  heart  of  Dean  Swift  was  almost 
broken  and  his  whole  life  was  embittered.  He 
never  forgot  the  terrible  scenes  of  famine  and 
wretchedness  which  he  had  witnessed,  although, 
with  his  splendid  intellect,  he  had  moments  and 
hours  of  keen  enjoyment,  and  until  the  death  of 
his  tender,  devoted,  life-long  friend,  Esther  John- 
son, he  was  never  lonely. 

She  was  only  seven  years  old  when  Swift  first 
saw  her.  They  lived  under  one  roof;  he  as  the 
secretary;  her  mother,  Lady  Giffard  as  house- 
keeper, to  Sir  William  Temple.  To  amuse  himself 
he  began  to  teach  the  thoughtful,  pretty,  intelli- 
gent, gentle  child,  who  won  his  heart  by  diligence 
to  her  books.  He  was  her  revered  teacher,  she 
was  his  beloved  pupil,  and  thus  began  the  innocent 
friendship  which  was  to  prove  his  greatest  happi- 
ness, and  to  last  until  her  death.  There  is  no 
manner  of  doubt  that  Swift  loved  Esther  John- 
son; that  he  ever  fell  in  love  with  her  is  another 
question. 

There  can  be,  and  are,  strange  bonds  between 
the  sexes.  A  man  can  love  a  woman  as  a  com- 


DEAN  SWIFT  87 

panion,  comrade,  and  friend  without  desiring 
her  as  a  wife.  A  woman  can  love  a  man  without 
desiring  him  as  a  husband.  The  spark  of  passion 
between  them  has  not  been,  and  can  never  be, 
ignited.  If  spiritual  and  physical  communion  on 
both  sides  be  compassed,  that  marriage  is  planned 
in  Heaven.  But  such  unions  are  all  too  rare. 
Many  marriages  are  only  a  compromise.  Many 
friendships  are  only  a  compromise.  Occasionally, 
there  is  an  understanding  so  complete  between 
two  people  that  words  are  almost  unnecessary.  I 
had  such  an  understanding  with  my  father;  and  it 
is  as  restful  and  refreshing  to  the  spirit  as  a  soft, 
warm  bath  to  the  body. 

The  bond  between  Swift  and  Esther  Johnson 
was  a  spiritual  one,  with  no  hint  of  passion  to 
disturb  the  harmony.  He  loved  her  too  much  to 
marry  another  woman,  and  what  woman  could 
have  borne  his  friendship  with  Esther?  Whom, 
nevertheless,  he  did  not  love  enough  to  marry. 
Perhaps  he  was  incapable  of  such  love.  Undoubt- 
edly there  are  men  born  celibates  and  priests,  as 
there  are  men  born  to  be  soldiers  and  patriots. 
Esther  Johnson  was  not  an  unusual  woman  to  be 
satisfied  with  friendship  alone,  there  are  many 
such  in  the  world  who  can  subjugate  passion  with 
tenderness.  And  there  would  be  much  more 
friendship  between  the  sexes  but  for  a  censorious 
world.  To  men  and  women,  of  undeveloped  intel- 


88  HERSELF— IRELAND 

lectuality  and  meagre  spiritual  gifts  there  appears 
to  be  but  one  bond  existing  between  other  men 
and  women — a  physical  one — whereas,  a  spiritual 
bond  is  often  the  strongest,  and  the  most  en- 
during. 

Next  to  the  love  of  a  mother  for  her  children, 
there  is  no  love  more  unselfish  than  that  of  a  true 
friend.  It  is  effortless,  flowing  in  a  strong,  deep 
tide,  like  the  waters  of  the  Mississippi.  It  is 
easy  and  comfortable,  giving  a  feeling  of  sureness 
and  serenity  that  is  almost  unknown  in  love.  And 
perhaps  friendship  has  even  higher  ideals  than 
love.  To  find  a  friend  unworthy  creates  a  most 
hurtful  wound. 

Swift  enjoyed  the  intellect  of  Esther  Johnson, 
he  respected  her  character,  he  basked  in  her  reason- 
able amiability,  he  desired  above  all  things  to 
stand  well  in  her  eyes,  and,  allowing  for  his 
divagations,  she  remained  the  first  woman  in  his 
life  and  in  his  heart.  That  he  philandered  with 
Hester  Vanhomrigh  is  perfectly  certain,  but  there 
are  the  fewest  men  in  the  world — particularly 
middle-aged  men — who  would  not  inhale  incense 
offered  to  their  vanity  by  a  young  woman  en- 
amoured of  their  vanishing  charms.  The  fumes 
are  too  potent  for  resistance.  Dean  Swift  had  an 
extraordinary  mind  and  intellect,  but  his  vanity 
was  like  that  of  other  men.  Hester  Vanhomrigh 
offered  him  the  most  seductive  of  all  flatteries, 


PEG  WOFFINGTON 

National  Gallery,  Dublin 


DEAN  SWIFT  89 

a  physical  adoration  of  his  fine  eyes,  his  fine 
nose,  his  fine  hands,  rather  than  his  fine 
intellect. 

For  a  moment  her  fresh  enthusiasm  gave  him 
renewed  youth.  While  in  her  presence  he  felt  the 
world  a  gayer,  pleasanter  place,  but  with  a  man 
of  his  clear  and  bitter  insight  into  motives  and 
character,  the  reaction  came,  and  there  were  dan- 
gerous intervals  for  her  and  for  him,  when  he 
almost  despised  her,  but  she  was  passionately 
importunate. 

"It  is  impossible,"  she  wrote  in  one  of  her  let- 
ters, "  to  describe  what  I  have  suffered  since  I 
saw  you  last.  I  am  sure  I  could  have  borne  the 
rack  much  better  than  those  killing  words  of 
yours.  Sometimes  I  have  resolved  to  die  without 
seeing  you  again,  but  these  resolves  to  your  mis- 
fortune did  not  last  long." 

Swift,  being  a  man,  in  answer  naturally  wrote 
the  wrong  letter. 

"  I  will  see  you  in  a  day  or  two,  and,  believe 
me,  it  goes  to  my  heart  not  to  see  you  oftener. 
I  will  give  you  the  best  advice,  countenance,  and 
assistance  I  can.  I  would  have  been  with  you 
sooner,  if  a  thousand  impediments  had  not  pre- 
vented me.  I  did  not  know  you  had  been  under 
difficulties.  I  am  sure  my  whole  fortune  should 
go  to  remove  them.  I  cannot  see  you  to-day,  I 
fear,  having  affairs  of  my  own  place  to  do,  but 


90  HERSELF— IRELAND 

pray  do  not  think  it  want  of  friendship  or  tender- 
ness, which  I  will  always  continue  to  the  utmost." 

This  suggestively  worded  missive,  while  it  says 
nothing  obviously  compromising,  soothes  and  puts 
forth  delicate  tendrils  of  hope,  and  no  drowning 
man  is  quicker  to  catch  at  straws  than  the  anxious 
and  uncertain  lover. 

Probably,  if  there  had  been  no  other  woman, 
Hester  Vanhomrigh  would  have  captured  the 
Dean;  as  it  was,  she  only  appealed  to  his  vanity, 
while  Esther  Johnson  appealed  to  his  heart.  Many 
men  have  philandered  at  the  same  moment  with 
two  women.  One  is  loved,  the  other  is  appreci- 
ated for  her  love  of  him.  Dean  Swift  may  have 
been  devoid  of  passion,  but  he  was  not  devoid 
of  the  love  of  adulation,  he  would  have  been 
superman  if  he  had  been.  He  cared  nothing  for 
Hester,  and  when  she  eventually  wrote  a  letter  to 
Esther  Johnson,  demanding  to  know  if  the  Dean 
was  her  lover  or  husband,  and  jeopardised  his 
relations  with  his  life-long  friend,  he  was  trans- 
ported with  rage,  rode  on  the  wings  of  the  wind 
to  Celbridge  Abbey,  rushed  into  Vanessa's  boudoir, 
threw  the  offending  missive  at  her  feet,  and  in 
that  tragic  moment  of  silence  the  man  and  the 
woman  dropped  their  protecting  masques  and 
looked  upon  each  other  for  the  first  time.  Hes- 
ter saw  a  man  devoid  of  all  compassion  toward 
her,  his  heart  filled  with  rage,  selfishness,  and 


DEAN  SWIFT  91 

irreconcilable  resentment;  and  he  saw  a  woman 
whose  quest  had  failed,  hard,  angry,  and  vindic- 
tive. With  a  grim  look  of  hate  and  no  word  of 
farewell,  he  left  her  for  ever. 

This  action  is  conclusive  evidence  of  where  his 
heart  belonged,  and  which  woman  he  wished  to 
protect  and  save  from  pain.  A  great  deal  of 
sympathy  has  been  lavished  on  Vanessa,  but 
after  all  Dean  Swift  practised  no  deceit  upon  her. 
She  knew  too  of  his  allegiance  to  another  woman. 
Diana  was  a  huntress.  There  are  many  women 
who  love  the  chase.  Vanessa  was  one  of  them. 
To  conquer  the  citadel  of  a  heart  that  has  en- 
dured a  long  siege  is  very  sweet.  Shaw  has  never 
written  a  truer  document  than  "  Man  and  Super- 
man." There  are  innumerable  Annes.  At  the 
present  time  they  are  nursing  in  hospitals  in 
France  and  in  England.  They  are  travelling  back 
and  forth  to  Serbia.  They  are  seeking  and  finding 
opportunities  all  over  this  warring  and  wounded 
world  to  exercise  the  unacknowledged  right  of 
choosing  their  mates.  Men  are  having  nothing 
their  own  way  any  longer.  Not  even  the  quest. 

But,  however  manufactured,  the  human  heart 
loves  romance.  There  are  people  who  have  never 
read  a  line  of  Dean  Swift,  who  know  of  the  exist- 
ence of  "  Vanessa's  Bower."  In  the  grounds  of 
Celbridge  Abbey,  an  ancient  and  picturesque 
bridge,  so  overgrown  with  ivy  that  only  the  arches 


92  HERSELF— IRELAND 

are  visible,  connects  a  little  island  in  the  Liffey 
with  the  mainland.  A  screen  of  laurel,  cypress, 
yew,  and  box  trees  hides  the  celebrated  arbour 
which  blossomed  in  roses,  eglantine,  jessamine, 
and  honeysuckle.  It  was  not  only  the  meeting- 
place  of  Dean  Swift  and  Vanessa,  but  Henry 
Grattan  loved  it,  and  has  written  a  poem  of  re- 
monstrance to  one  of  the  later  owners,  Dean 
Marley,  who  meditated  making  changes  in  the 
grounds  near  the  island. 

There  is  a  very  early  link  connecting  this  his- 
toric house  with  America,  for  in  1683,  Colonel 
Thomas  Dongan,  one  of  the  younger  sons  of  the 
owner  of  the  Abbey,  was  appointed  Governor 
General  of  the  Duke  of  York's  Province  in  New 
York.  Sympathising  with  the  ambition  of  the 
Colonists,  he  called  together  a  General  Assembly 
which  formed  a  Charter  of  Liberties,  and  he  ef- 
fected a  Treaty  with  the  Five  Nations  of  the 
Iroquois  Indians,  withdrawing  them  from  their 
French  Allies.  He  also  granted  to  New  York 
City  the  celebrated  Dongan  Charter,  which  is  still 
the  basis  and  foundation  of  its  municipal  law. 
The  Duke  of  York's  Province  comprised  at  that 
time  the  States  of  Maine  and  New  York  and  the 
islands  of  Nantucket  and  Martha's  Vineyard. 

Booth,  the  historian  of  the  City  of  New  York, 
wrote  of  Colonel  Dongan,  "  The  firm  judicial 
policy  of  this  distinguished  Irishman,  his  stead- 


DEAN  SWIFT  93 

fast  integrity,  and  his  pleasing  and  courteous  ad- 
dress soon  won  the  affections  of  the  people." 

He  was,  however,  recalled  in  1688;  and  on  the 
death  of  his  elder  brother,  William,  whose  son  had 
been  killed  in  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne,  he  became 
Earl  of  Limerick.  It  was  after  he  had  succeeded 
to  the  Earldom  that  Celbridge  Abbey  was  leased 
or  sold  to  Bartholomew  Vanhomrigh,  and  upon 
his  death  it  descended  to  his  daughter  Hester. 

This  honoured  house,  one  of  the  landmarks  of 
history  and  romance,  which  holds  so  many  memo- 
ries of  famous  aristocrats,  statesmen,  poets,  and 
patriots,  has  now  passed  into  the  hands  of  appre- 
ciative Americans. 


CHAPTER  V 

HICKS,  A  MAN  WITHOUT  PRICE 

AND  then  I  found  Hicks.  Hicks  the  rare — 
Hicks  the  untemptable — Hicks  the  incorruptible 
— the  man  to  whom,  after  a  deal  in  old  furniture, 
Lord  Charles  Beresford  said,  "  Hicks,  when  you 
die,  you  ought  not  to  be  buried;  you  should  be 
stuffed  and  put  in  a  glass-case." 

A  little  old,  interesting  engraving  of  George 
Washington,  displayed  in  the  window,  induced  me 
to  enter  a  shop  and  enquire  the  price.  It  proved 
moderate,  and  I  bought  the  print  in  spite  of  its 
not  representing  President  Washington  at  his 
best.  The  mouth,  though  firm,  looks  as  if  the 
lips  had  closed  over  a  set  of  very  badly  fitting 
false  teeth,  which  was  probable,  as  history  records 
that  General  Washington,  like  many  of  the  sol- 
diers at  the  front  to-day,  suffered  from  tooth- 
ache; and  false  teeth  were  not  made  with  the  per- 
fection of  the  present  mechanician,  although  I  have 
seen  some  wretched  affairs,  not  only  in  Ireland, 
but  elsewhere.  And  Mr.  Labouchere  had  in  all, 
twenty-seven  sets  of  false  teeth.  He  used  to  say 
that  wherever  he  went  he  had  teeth  made,  hop- 
ing they  would  be  more  comfortable  than  the 

94 


HICKS,  A  MAN  WITHOUT  PRICE      95 

others.  At  their  villa  in  Florence,  after  a  dinner- 
party, when  the  guests  were  assembled  in  the 
library,  a  distinguished  General  of  the  English 
Army,  standing  by  the  mantelpiece,  smoking  a 
cigarette,  flicked  the  ashes  into  a  small  coral- 
coloured  object.  Mr.  Labouchere  watched  him 
with  mischievous  eyes  and  no  interference  until 
the  receptacle  was  heaping  full;  then  he  said: 

"  General,  do  you  know  you  have  been  using  my 
teeth  as  an  ash-receiver? " 

The  General  said,  "  God  bless  me,  so  I 
have." 

"  It's  a  matter  of  no  consequence,"  said  Mr. 
Labouchere.  "  I've  got  twenty-six  other  sets  of 
false  teeth;  there  is  no  reason  why  one  of  them 
should  not  be  converted  into  an  ash-tray." 

In  the  sourse  of  conversation  about  the  engrav- 
ing and  its  authenticity,  this  Irishman's  name,  by 
the  way,  was  Bragazzi — his  father  was  an  Italian, 
and  he  makes  beautiful  frames — I  asked  him  the 
names  of  shops  for  old  furniture. 

"  The  most  honest  man  in  Dublin  for  old  furni- 
ture," he  said;  "  he  hasn't  got  the  most,  mind  you, 
but  what  he  has  got  he'll  speak  the  truth  about, 
for  he  can  nayther  be  bought  nor  sold,  is  Hicks  of 
Lower  Pembroke  Street." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  I  said,  "there  is 
such  a  rara  avis  in  the  world,  such  an  original 
and  surprising  creature,  as  a  dealer  in  antiques 


96  HERSELF— IRELAND 

who  is  scrupulously  honest  and  reliable?  I  can 
hardly  believe  you." 

"Lady,  you  can,  for  I'm  tellin'  you  no  lies. 
And  the  amazin'  part  of  it  is,  an'  that's  where 
Hicks'  timptation  comes  in,  he  can  make  new  fur- 
niture out  of  old  wood,  an'  the  divil  himself  can't 
tell  that  it's  new.  But  Hicks  he'll  up  and  tell 
you,  if  he  cud  make  a  hundred  pounds  or  more, 
'tis  new  an'  'tis  old." 

I  said,  "  It  seems  to  me  that  Hicks  is  making 
a  glorious  path  to  Heaven,  isn't  he? " 

"  He  is  that,  lady,  an'  he  won't  stumble  over  a 
single  imitation  table,  or  stool,  or  chair  on  the 
way.  You  see,  it  is  in  Hicks'  blood  to  make 
furniture;  his  father  was  a  famous  chairmaker 
of  Dublin.  Now,  occasionally,  a  beautiful  old 
chair  of  the  elder  Hicks  will  come  on  the  market, 
and  fetch  a  large  price  as  a  genuine  old  bit  of 
Chippendale,  Sheraton,  or  Hepplewhite.  The 
father  trained  both  his  sons,  William  and  James, 
to  be  not  only  first-class  cabinet-makers,  but  rale 
artists.  William — Lord  rest  his  soul! — was  a  fa- 
mous carver,  and  had  a  hand  on  him  as  light  and 
delicate  as  a  woman,  and  as  steady  and  strong  as 
a  man.  Sir  Thornley  Stoker  owned  a  table  carved 
by  William  Hicks;  the  wood  was  a  fine  old  piece 
of  mahogany,  and  his  understandin'  hand  done 
justice  to  it.  After  Sir  Thornley's  death,  in  the 
sale  of  his  furniture,  one  of  these  Bond  Street 


HICKS,  A  MAN  WITHOUT  PRICE      97 

dealers  pronounced  it  a  genuine  Adam  table — no 
Irishman  was  going  to  contradict  him — there  were 
many   bidders   for   it,   and   the   hammer   fell   at 
115  guineas,  and  it  went  off  to  London.    James 
Hicks  is  just  as  remarkable  in  his  way  as  his 
brother  William.     Sir  Thornley  Stoker,  wander- 
ing about  the   old   shops, — he   was   a  born   col- 
lector,— came  across  a  fine  old  wreck,  so  bad,  that 
old   Mrs.   Brady  was   glad   enough  to   get   five 
pounds  for  it.     It  was  a  Louis  Quinze  chest  of 
drawers  with  a  bow  in  front,  as  the  legs  were 
entirely  gone,  sittin'  flat  on  the  floor.    Sir  Thorn- 
ley  sent  it  on  to  James  Hicks,  who  restored  it  and 
made  new  legs  of  old  wood.     It  was  afterwards 
pronounced     genuine    by    competent — annyway, 
they  thought  themselves  competent — judges,  and 
at    Sir    Thor  nicy's    sale    fetched    three    hundred 
guineas.     Hicks  is  well  known   to  royalty   and 
aristocracy;  he  has  made  a  lot  of  old-new  furni- 
ture for  the  Duke  of  Connaught's  house  in  Lon- 
don, and  while  the  Connaughts  were  resident  in 
the  Royal  Hospital,  he  gave  the  Duchess  lessons 
in  cabinet-making.    There  is  no  one  in  the  king- 
dom that  can  turn  out  more  beautiful  work  in 
marquetry.     Give  him  a  piece  of  fine  old  satin- 
wood,  and  bits  of  hardwood,  and  he  can  make  a 
table   or  a  cabinet  that  would   pass   for   a   fine 
French   piece   annywhere,   even   in   France.     In 
fact,  a  good  many  of  his  pieces  have  found  their< 


98  HERSELF— IRELAND 

way  to  Paris.  He  buys  tumbled-down,  forlorn 
wrecks  of  furniture  that  you  wouldn't  look  at; 
they  can  be  covered  with  dirt  and  divided  with 
cracks,  but  he  makes  no  mistake,  and  turns  old 
mahogany  tables,  old  beds,  and  old  sideboards 
into  beautiful  copies  of  old  furniture.  It  is  a 
pity  that  he  rarely  puts  his  name  on  anny  of  his 
work,  as  he  never  keeps  annything  long.  A  lot  of 
the  London  dealers  come  over  to  buy  his  stuff,  and 
they  tell  me  a  great  deal  of  it  has  been  passed  as 
genuine  old  French  and  English  pieces;  and  to 
my  thinkin',  it  would  be  just  as  well  that  Ireland 
got  the  credit  for  good  Irish  work.  But  he's 
an  artist,  not  a  tradesman,  and  glory  be  to  God, 
it's  not  his  fault  that  he  ever  sells  annything.  I 
was  in  his  place  one  day  when  Lady  Cadogan, 
who  was  the  Lady  Liftenant  of  them  times,  came 
in  with  some  quality,  and  began  to  admire  his 
stock,  and  she  particularly  liked  some  chairs.  He 
was  standin'  by  with  a  pad  and  pencil.  '  No/  he 
said,  '  thim  chairs  is  not  as  they  ought  to  be.  If 
I  was  to  make  thim  ag'in  here's  what  I'd  do ';  and 
then  he  began  to  draw  different  parts,  and  if  he 
didn't  go  about  among  thim  English  folk  dis- 
paragin'  his  own  work  and  showin'  thim  how  he 
could  improve  on  it.  Bern*  accustomed  to  Eng- 
lish tradesmen,  who  have  a  rule  of  praisin'  ivery- 
thing  in  their  own  shops, — good,  bad,  and  indif- 
ferent, and  the  more  indifferent  the  more  praise 


HICKS,  A  MAN  WITHOUT  PRICE      99 

— these  ladies  and  gintlemen  didn't  know  whether 
Hicks  was  a  fraud  or  a  janius.  But  one  thing 
they  did  know:  they  had  never  met  annybody  like 
him  in  Bond  Street.  They  had  to  come  to  Ireland 
to  find  himself.  He  has  got  an  order  now  from 
the  Queen  of  Spain  to  make  an  illegant  writin'- 
table  and  a  large  chair  for  Prince  George  of  Bat- 
tenburg  as  a  wedding  present.  The  chances  are 
that  the  table  and  chair  will  go  out  of  Dublin 
without  annywan  but  myself  seein'  thim,  when, 
sure,  they  ought  to  be  put  on  exhibition  in  Grafton 
Street  for  ivery  stranger  to  see  what  can  be  done 
in  Ireland.  But  maybe  if  you  are  over  here  whin 
they  are  ready  for  the  Prince  you  can  see  thim." 

When  finished,  the  chair  and  table  were  noble 
pieces  of  furniture.  I  saw  them  before  they  were 
packed,  and  Hicks  was  in  great  feather,  as  he 
said  Prince  George  had  the  taste  of  a  gintleman, 
and  would  appreciate  his  work. 

It  was  after  my  talk  with  Brigazzi  that  I  went 
to  see  Hicks,  and  since  then  I  have  spent  many 
afternoons  in  the  shop  of  that  entertaining  man. 
The  night  before  my  first  visit,  that  brilliant  Irish- 
man, Barry  O'Brien,  the  biographer  of  Parnell, 
was  talking  to  me  of  that  great  statesman. 

"  I  claim,"  I  said,  "  through  America,  half  of 
Parnell's  glory.  Do  you  remember  the  descrip- 
tion of  him  by  A.  M.  Sullivan?  4  In  everything 
but  convictions  and  resolutions,  a  more  un-Irish, 


100  HERSELF— IRELAND 

un-Celtic  man  it  would  be  rare  to  meet.'  He  is, 
indeed,  the  very  antithesis  of  the  emotional  and 
impulsive  Celt,  whose  heart  divides  with  his  head, 
the  course  of  his  policy.  Many  Englishmen  ex- 
pect to  see  in  him  a  burly,  brawling,  fierce  Irish- 
man. Instead  of  that,  they  would  meet  a  pale- 
faced  and  thoughtful  young  gentleman,  quiet, 
reserved,  and  refined.  In  personal  appearance,  in 
manners,  voice,  and  accent,  he  is  English  with  a 
tinge  of  the  American.  A  stranger  would  judge 
him  to  be  a  cultivated  Englishman  who  lived  in 
America,  or  a  cultivated  American  who  had  lived 
in  England." 

"  Yes,"  said  Barry  O'Brien,  "  but  you  know  that 
Parnell's  grandfather,  Admiral  Stewart,  known 
as  Old  Ironsides,  was  an  American.  After  a 
dashing  courtship,  he  married  Elizabeth  Tudor, 
a  beautiful  girl  of  New  England  birth." 

"I  visited  Mrs.  William  Tudor  in  Boston," 
I  said.  "A  lovely  portrait  of  Elizabeth  Tudor 
hung  in  the  drawing-room;  she  was  William 
Tudor's  grandmother  as  well  as  Parnell's." 

"  When  she  was  the  affianced  bride  of  Admiral 
Stewart,"  said  Barry  O'Brien,  "he  asked,  as  he 
was  sailing  for  English  waters,  'When  I  come 
back  what  shall  I  bring  you?'  'An  English 
frigate,'  she  said.  'I'll  bring  you  two,'  he  an- 
swered, and  he  did.  His  battleship  appeared 
with  two  frigates  in  tow.  Do  you  know  that 


THE  CROSS  OF  CONG 

Made  for  Turlongh  O' Conor,  King  of  Ireland  in  1123,  designed  as  a 
shrine  worthy  to  hold  a  piece  of  the  true  Cross 


HICKS,  A  MAN  WITHOUT  PRICE     101 

pretty     story     of     your     high-spirited     country- 
women? " 

What  a  strange  coincidence  that  I  was  to  see 
the  picture  of  those  very  ships.  Looking  about 
the  salesroom  of  Hicks  the  next  day,  he  soon 
divined  my  nationality,  and  offered  to  show  me 
two  pictures  that  were  in  process  of  packing  for 
shipment  to  America.  A  life-sized  portrait  of 
Admiral  Stewart,  in  the  gold-laced  uniform  of  the 
American  Navy  was  one;  and  a  picture  of  three 
ships — an  American  battleship  and  two  Eng- 
lish frigates — was  the  other.  They  had  originally 
come  from  America,  had  hung  for  many  years  in 
Avondale,  Parnell's  house  in  Wicklow,  and  were, 
now  going  home.  I  hope  they  have  crossed  the 
water  for  the  last  time,  and  will  be  treasured  by 
some  member  of  the  Tudor  family. 

"  How  much  are  these  chairs? "  I  asked  Hicks, 
on  another  visit. 

"  They  are  not  for  sale ;  they  belong  to  a  gintle- 
man  who  sent  them  to  me  fifteen  years  ago  to  be 
repaired." 

I  smiled.  "  Fifteen  years  ago !  And  have  you 
repaired  them?  " 

"  They  are  nearly  finished,"  said  Hicks. 
"  When  he  comes  for  them  they'll  soon  be  ready." 

"And  don't  you  charge  for  storage?" 

"  An'  how  could  I  be  doin'  that?  Sure,  the 
man  may  be  travelling  certainly  he  has  the  best 


102  HERSELF— IRELAND 

of  raisons  for  leavin'  thim  chairs  here.  But  that's 
not  so  long  as  a  harpsichord  a  lady  left  with  me 
for  twenty-five  years,  and  it  would  have  been 
there  still  but  for  a  dinner-party  given  by  the 
Duke  of  Connaught." 

"  Did  you  lend  it  to  the  Duke  for  the  party? " 
I  asked,  remembering  that  one  day  I  had  seen  a 
van  piled  high  with  beautiful  furniture,  which 
Mrs.  Hicks,  a  true  lady  in  manner  and  in  heart, 
told  me  they  were  lending  to  a  poor  young  doctor 
who  was  getting  married.  I  wonder  if  they'll 
lend  it  to  him  for  fifteen  years. 

"  God  bless  my  soul,  no,"  said  Hicks.  "  The 
Duke  wouldn't  be  borrowin'  furniture.  He  has 
got  a  very  fair  an'  decided  taste  of  his  own;  he 
knows  what  to  buy,  and  he  buys  it.  What  a 
blessin'  for  Ireland  if  we  had  him  here  altogether. 
He's  a  rale  gintleman — if  he  is  a  royalty — and 
he  could  help  settle  The  Irish  Question  better 
than  most,  because  he  has  an  understandin'  of  the 
people.  The  Irish  like  him,  and  they  wouldn't 
like  him  if  he  didn't  like  thim." 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said,  "  about  the  dinner  and  the 
harpsichord." 

"  I  have  to  go  back,"  said  Hicks,  "  to  whin  the 
piano  arrived  from  London,  and  I  paid  twenty- 
five  shillin's  carriage — I  wrote  that  down  in  a  book 
— and  I  heard  nothin'  more.  Twenty  years  after- 
wards, I  opened  the  case;  the  instrument  pretty 


HICKS,  A  MAN  WITHOUT  PRICE     103 

well  fell  to  pieces.  It  wasn't  for  music  the  lady 
bought  it,  annyhow,  but  for  satinwood,  and  sure 
it  was  a  rare  piece  of  wood.  There  was  wan  other 
thing  in  the  case,  a  mahogany  stand.  A  grand 
thickness  it  was,  and  I  could  have  used  it  for 
manny  a  thing,  and  thought  I  would  when  twenty- 
three  years  wint  by.  But,  as  luck  would  have  it, 
I  let  it  alone.  Then  the  Duke  came  to  me  and 
says,  '  Hicks,  have  you  got  an  old  satinwood  piano 
or  harpsichord?'  'I  have,  Sir,'  I  said.  'I  got 
one  at  a  sale  in  town.  It  is  a  beautiful  piece  of 
satinwood,  and  has  got  the  name  of  the  maker  on 
it, — H.  Woffington, — most  probably  he  was  a 
relative  of  the  celebrated  actress,  Peg  Woffington, 
that  wonderful  daughter  of  a  Dublin  bricklayer 
and  a  Dublin  laundress,  who  took  the  town  by 
storm  in  the  Beggar's  Opera,  when  she  was  only 
eighteen  years  old.  But  she  could  niver  have  gone 
straight  into  opera  without  some  musical  educa- 
tion; so  it  seems  to  me,  that  her  father  and  the 
H.  Woffington  that  made  this  harpsichord 
must  have  been  brothers.  That  Mrs.  Woffington 
must  have  been  a  great  woman  to  preside  at  the 
Tory  dinners  of  the  Beefsteak  Club.'  Well,  the 
Duke  was  very  pleased  to  hear  about  the  harpsi- 
chord, and  I  didn't  let  him  see  it  until  I  got  a 
pianomaker  to  come  and  set  the  movements  right, 
and  it  made  a  nice  little  gentle,  old-fashioned, 
tingling  kind  of  music.  Most  dealers  make  these 


104  HERSELF— IRELAND 

pianos  into  cabinets,  but  I  think  it  is  much  better 
to  leave  things  for  what  they  were  meant  to  be. 
If  it  is  possible,  a  thing  should  remain  honestly 
what  it  is.  I  must  say  that  the  Duke  was  pleased 
and  smiling  when  he  saw  the  piano," — then  Hicks 
gave  an  unconscious  sigh, — "  but  what  with  one 
thing  and  another,  restoring  it,  and  the  piano- 
maker  to  set  it  right  again,  I  must  say  I  had  more 
pleasure  than  profit  when  I  sold  it.  In  fact  it 
was  only  a  matter  of  a  few  pounds.  But  then 
over  a  very  good  thing  I  often  make  no  more  than 
a  couple  of  pounds.  And,  upon  my  word,  I'd 
rather  that  than  sell  it  to  a  rank  outsider,  who 
wouldn't  know  what  he  was  buying.  If  I  say 
to  a  customer  who  knows  what's  what,  '  That 
table's  tin  pounds,'  and  he  says,  *  Hicks,  send  it 
to  me  to-morrow,  and  here's  a  cheque  for  eight,' 
'tis  hard  for  me  to  hold  out  agin'  him.  I've  got 
a  kind  of  feelin'  for  furniture;  I  suppose  it  is  I 
like  me  chairs  to  go  where  they  will  be  kindly 
tr'ated  and  looked  after.  So  I  sint  the  tinklin' 
harpsichord  to  the  Duke  and  he  agreed  with  me 
it  was  a  grand  piece.  And  at  the  dinner-party  a 
lady  said  to  him,  *  I  see  Hicks  has  sold  you  me 
cousin's  piano  that  he's  had  stored  away.'  '  No,' 
said  the  Duke,  *  I'm  very  sure  Hicks  wouldn't  do  a 
thing  like  that.'  The  lady  said  she  knew  the 
piano.  The  Duke  explained  it  had  not  been  in 
Hicks'  possession  for  long,  but  she  was  uncon- 


HICKS,  A  MAN  WITHOUT  PRICE     105 

vinced.  The  Duke  said  nothin'  to  me — he  was  too 
much  of  a  gintleman  for  that — but  one  of  the 
guests  said,  '  Hicks,  I  heard  an  aspersion  on  your 
character  the  other  evening,'  and  then  she  told  me 
the  conversation.  God  knows,  after  all  these 
years,  when  nayther  satinwood  nor  mahogany,  nor 
the  best  ould  imitation  I  iver  made — an'  some  of 
thim's  almost  deceaved  miself — have  induced  me 
to  imperil  my  immortal  soul,  I  was  boiling  mad. 
Maybe  I'll  deserve  purgatory,  but  manny  a  dealer 
in  ould  stuff  won't  even  have  a  look  in  at  that 
place  of  purification,  he'll  go  straight  down,  and 
stay  there  sittin'  and  roastin'  and  squirmin',  on  his 
red-hot  bastard  sofas  and  chairs.  I  wrote  and 
asked  the  lady,  who  had  been  to  the  Duke's  dinner, 
to  come  to  the  shop,  and  I  showed  her  her  cou- 
sin's piano,  and  the  mahogany  stand,  which  the 
two  of  them  had  forgot — I  might  have  used  it 
after  all,  it  was  a  grand  piece  of  wood — and  I  says, 
'  Please  tell  your  cousin  to  pay  me  the  twenty- 
five  shillin's  ' — I  showed  her  the  book — '  and 
to  send  for  the  piano  at  the  same  time,  I  can't 
keep  it  any  longer.' " 

"  And  did  she  send  for  it? "  I  asked. 

"  Ah,  sure,  about  a  year  after,  it  was  hauled 
away." 

"And  you  got  your  twenty-five  shillings,  I 
hope? " 

"About  that,"  said  Hicks,  "  about  that;  maybe 


106  HERSELF— IRELAND 

it  was  but  twinty.  Where  are  those  good  chairs 
that  another  gintleman  left  with  us  seventeen 
years  ago?  Show  them  to  Mrs.  O'Connor,"  he 
called  to  Mrs.  Hicks. 

"  They're  in  our  own  house  now,"  said  Mrs. 
Hicks. 

"  I'm  hopin'  he  won't  come  for  them,"  said 
Hicks.  "  I've  got  to  like  them." 

"  In  Texas,"  I  said,  "  after  a  man's  squatted  on 
land  for  ten  years,  he  gets  a  quit  claim  to  it; 
seven  years  desertion  and  silence  give  a  woman 
a  divorce;  I  think  there  should  be  a  law  in  Ire- 
land about  the  abandonment  of  pianos  and  chairs. 
When  there  is  a  Parliament  on  College  Green,  I'll 
propose  a  bill." 

"  I'd  rather  have  you  a  mimber  than  army  I 
know,"  said  Hicks,  gallantly,  although  I  doubt  if 
he  believes  in  Woman's  Suffrage. 

Hicks  is  an  artist  in  the  making  of  furniture. 
The  first  thing  that  strikes  the  eye  of  the  ordinary 
observer  is,  of  course,  line.  But  an  expert  cabinet- 
maker must  have  feeling,  an  appreciation  for 
design,  an  unerring  eye  for  the  colour  of  the  wood, 
both  in  the  raw  material  and  as  a  finished  product. 
He  must  not,  if  he  is  copying  eighteenth  century 
furniture,  add  a  hair's  breadth  to  the  inch.  He 
must  understand  mathematical  precision.  The 
legs  of  a  chair  must  approach  the  body  as 
close  as  wax.  The  carving  must  be  sharp  and 


HICKS,  A  MAN  WITHOUT  PRICE     107 

bold.  The  inlay  so  smooth,  that  the  finger  of 
a  blind  man  passing  over  it  is  unable  to  detect 
flower  or  scroll.  All  his  my  friend  Hicks  can 
compass,  and  his  copies  of  old  furniture  have 
often  puzzled  experts.  The  Duke  recommended 
him  to  a  gentleman  who  not  only  became  a  good 
client,  but  appreciated  Hicks'  unerring  eye  for 
genuine  old  pieces.  Hicks  was  asked  to  his  place 
in  the  country  for  the  purpose  of  passing  judg- 
ment on  various  treasures.  When  they  came  to  the 
drawing-room  and  Hicks  loitered  near  a  beautiful 
French  table,  Sir  Arthur  jocosely  said,  "  Don't 
take  the  trouble,  Hicks,  to  fix  your  copying  eye 
on  that  old  table;  it's  beyond  you.  The  green 
inlay  was  only  done  to  perfection  in  the  time  of 
Marie  Antoinette." 

"  No,  Sir,"  said  Hicks,  running  his  hand  affec- 
tionately over  the  pale  green  ribands,  set  in 
golden  satinwood,  "  I  made  this  table." 

"  Hicks,  you're  a  liar!  " 

"  I  may  be,"  said  Hicks ;  "  but  not  about  this 
table,  Sir.  Thirty  years  ago  a  gintleman  customer 
of  mine,  who  only  owned  respectable  furniture — 
by  that  I  mean  furniture  that  speaks  for  a  man's 
taste,  knowledge,  and  breeding — believe  me,  Sir, 
cabinets  and  chairs  and  tables  can  say  a  good  deal 
for  a  man,  as  china  and  prints  can  speak  for  a 
woman, — came  to  me  and  said, '  Hicks,  I  want  you 
to  cross  to  London  to-night  and  buy  a  table  for 


108  HERSELF— IRELAND 

me  that  is  to  be  sold  in  a  few  days  at  Christies'. 
It's  a  genuine  bit  of  Louis  XVI,  and  was  at  one 
time  at  Versailles,  there's  no  doubt  about  that. 
But  I  can  only  go  to  a  certain  figure.  Photo- 
graph it  with  your  eyes,  measure  it  with  your 
hands,  drink  in  the  beautiful  colour  of  it,  so  that, 
at  least,  I  may  have  a  reminder  of  the  lost  treas- 
ure, if  I  don't  get  it.'  That  table  certainly  was 
of  the  best,  mellow  in  colour,  lovely  in  line,  and 
inlaid  by  the  hand  of  a  great  artist.  I  knew  the 
moment  I  saw  it,  that  I  wouldn't  be  able  to  buy 
it,  so  I  set  about  photographing  it  with  my  eyes, 
and  luckily  I  knew  one  of  the  men  at  Christies'. 
He  allowed  me  to  measure  and  to  sketch  it.  I  was 
there  as  soon  as  the  doors  were  open  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  I  stayed  until  after  the  sale.  The  table 
fetched  three  times  my  price.  Then  I  came  back 
to  Dublin,  and  set  to  work,  and  made  four  of 
these  tables.  One  went  to  Germany,  one  to  Lon- 
don, one  to  my  client,  and  you  have  the  other." 

"  Well,  I'm  damned,"  said  the  owner.  "  Hicks, 
I  gave  a  lot  of  money  for  that  table,  a  fancy 
price,  and  bought  it  for  the  genuine  thing. 
Are  you  sure  this  isn't  a  fairy  story,  you 
villain? " 

"  Turn  it  up,  Sir,  and  you'll  find  a  little  scrawly 
'  H '  in  ebony,  close  to  the  right  foreleg." 

"It's  here,  Hicks,  that  betraying  '  H,' "  Sir 
Arthur  said,  with  the  table  turned  upside  down. 


HICKS,  A  MAN  WITHOUT  PRICE    109 

"  What  a  pity  I  didn't  send  for  you  before  I 
bought  it." 

"  Yes,  Sir,  in  one  way  it  is;  but  all  the  same, 
in  my  own  defence,  I  will  say  that  it's  a  mighty 
good  table ;  I  never  made  a  better ;  the  wood  is  old 
and  mellow,  the  colour  is  soft  and  deep,  the 
design  is  fine,  the  inlay  is  perfect,  and  the  work  is 
a  credit  to  me,  and  to  the  men  who  did  their  share 
of  it." 

"  And,"  said  Sir  Arthur,  "  as  the  firm  I  bought 
it  from  have  gone  bankrupt,  I  must  be  satisfied 
with  a  good  table  and  a  good  story,  that's  about 
it." 

"  And  it  might  have  been  worse,  Sir.  I've  seen 
gintlemen  done  with  a  bad  table,  and  no  joke 
either,"  said  Hicks. 

Hicks  is  very  observant,  and  sympathetic 
enough  to  be  an  almost  unerring  judge  of  char- 
acter. A  lady  of  England  having  bought  various 
valuable  pieces  of  furniture  from  him,  said,  "If 
you  are  ever  in  London,  Mr.  Hicks,  come  and 
see  me,  I  may  find  something  in  my  house  for 
you  to  do."  A  day  came  when  Hicks  remem- 
bered her  words  and  went  to  London — being  a 
sportsman,  he  is  always  ready  to  take  a  fighting 
chance — but  this  time  Fate  seemed  against 
him,  for  the  butler  said  the  lady  had  gone 
abroad. 

"  Has  she  a  sicretary?  "  asked  Hicks. 


110  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"  She  has,"  said  the  butler,  "  and  I'll  ask  him 
to  see  you." 

When  Hicks  repeated  the  conversation  between 
the  lady  and  himself  the  secretary  said,  "  I  have  no 
authority  to  give  you  an  order  to  do  any  work." 
But  being  already  prepossessed  in  his  favour, 
when  Hicks  asked  to  be  shown  over  the  house,  the 
secretary  opened  the  rooms  to  him. 

Hicks  stopped  long  at  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room,  tapped  the  walls,  with  his  quick  eye  meas- 
ured them,  and  said,  "  This  room  must  be 
panelled." 

"What!"  said  the  startled  secretary. 

"  It  cries  out  for  panellin',"  said  Hicks. 

"  But  I  can't  give  you  an  order  to  panel  it," 
said  the  secretary. 

"How  long  will  the  lady  be  away?"  ques- 
tioned Hicks. 

"  Two  or  three  months." 

"  Then  I'll  begin  work  to-morrow,  an'  if  the 
lady  likes  the  room  and  the  price  she  can  pay  for 
it.  If  not  I'll  lose  confidence  in  me  pocket  and 
me  judgment.  That's  fair  enough,  isn't  it? " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  secretary,  who  was  a  sportsman, 
too ;  "  but  first  write  me  a  letter  which  absolves 
me  from  all  responsibility." 

"I'll  do  that,"  said  Hicks,  "an'  we'll  give  her 
ladyship  the  pleasant  surprise  of  her  life." 

When  introduced  to  the  room,   the  lady   was 


HICKS,  A  MAN  WITHOUT  PRICE    111 

first  surprised,  then  delighted,  then  amused;  and 
she  paid  the  bill  of  three  hundred  pounds  without 
a  protest.  And  Hicks,  with  confidence  in  his 
judgment,  his  pocket,  and  his  lucky  star,  re- 
turned to  Ireland  more  than  ever  a  Knight  of 
Chance. 


CHAPTER  VI 

OLD  IRELAND,  AND  THE  LITTLE  WHITE 
FLOWER 

I  AM  not  only  grateful  to  my  friend  Hicks  for 
a  quite  beautiful  chest  of  drawers  that  he  made 
for  me,  but  it  was  he  who  brought  to  my  notice 
the  Georgian  books.  Those  five  valuable  volumes, 
compiled  under  the  auspices  of  the  Georgian  So- 
ciety, which  contain  the  records  of  the  noble 
eighteenth  century  architecture  of  celebrated 
houses  in  Dublin,  and  of  historic  country  places 
throughout  Ireland.  Rev.  J.  P.  Mahaify,  Pro- 
vost of  Trinity  College,  who  has  contributed  much 
appreciative  work  to  these  books,  was  kind  enough 
to  give  me  permission  to  use  any  of  the  beautiful 
illustrations.  Unfortunately  for  my  purpose,  the 
plates  have  been  destroyed.  This  is  an  advantage 
to  the  limited  number  of  volumes  which  have  been 
issued,  making  them  each  year  increase  in  value; 
but  it  seems  a  pity  not  to  have  sealed  up  the 
plates  and  put  them  in  some  place  of  safety, 
for  the  benefit  of  future  generations.  Not  only 
will  these  books  give  hours  of  delight  to  the  idle 
person,  who  amuses  himself  with  picture  books, 

112 


OLD  IRELAND  113 

but  they  are  satisfying  to  lovers  of  architecture, 
full  of  suggestions  to  architects,  and  Pepys  him- 
self, in  his  gossiping  Diary,  is  not  more  piquant 
than  a  number  of  these  records  of  the  great 
houses,  and  the  great  people  of  Ireland's  pros- 
perous past. 

Lady  Caroline  Dawson,  afterwards  Countess  of 
Portarlington,  in  the  autumn  of  1778,  writes  to  her 
sister,  Lady  Louisa  Stewart,  in  a  sprightly  fashion 
of  Carton,  the  family  seat  of  the  Duke  of  Leinster : 

"  You  will  be  surprised,  when  I  tell  you  there 
are  at  present  four  generations  in  the  house,  the 
Duchess  having  her  mother,  and  grandmother  pay- 
ing her  a  visit,  which  with  her  children  make  up 
four;  and  the  great-grandmother  is  a  very  good- 
looking  woman,  not  older  than  most  people's 
mothers,  and  the  Duchess'  mother,  Lady.  St. 
George,  one  would  take  to  be  fifteen.  I  must 
describe  her  to  you  because  she  is  so  remarkable. 
She  has  a  very  pretty  little  figure,  with  a  face  not 
handsome  but  well  enough,  and  her  dress  in  the 
afternoon  is  a  polonaise  trimmed  with  gauze; 
upon  recollection  I  am  telling  you  wrong,  for  it 
is  a  Circassian  all  over  loops  and  tassels  (like 
the  one  Mrs.  Stewart  brought  from  Paris  last 
year),  and  a  little  black  Henri  Quatre  hat  upon 
her  head,  with  her  hair  dressed  up  to  it  behind. 
In  the  morning  she  wears  an  orange-coloured 
habit,  embroidered  or  rather  embossed  with  gold, 


114  HERSELF— IRELAND 

and  a  great  rich  gold  stuff  waistcoat,  with  broad 
laced  ruffles,  and  a  little  white  beaver  hat  with 
a  bunch  of  white  feathers  upon  the  top,  and  a 
black  stock,  so  that  she  looks  the  finest  French 
figure  you  ever  saw.  Everything  seems  to  go  on 
in  great  state  here.  The  Duchess  appears  in  a 
sack,  and  hoop,  and  diamonds,  at  every  meal,  and 
such  quantities  of  plate,  etc.,  that  one  would 
imagine  oneself  in  a  palace;  and  there  are  servants 
without  end.  One  morning  they  drove  us  all  over 
the  park,  which  is  really  fine,  though  all  done 
by  the  Duke's  father — therefore  no  wood  of 
any  growth — but  there  is  a  fine  river  with 
rocks,  etc. 

"  It  is  not  the  fashion  at  Carton  to  play  at 
cards.  The  ladies  sit  and  work,  and  the  gentle- 
men lollop  about,  and  go  to  sleep — at  least  the 
Duke  does,  for  he  snored  so  loud  the  other  night 
that  we  all  got  into  a  great  fit  of  laughing  and 
waked  him.  They  asked  me  if  I  liked  cards,  and 
I  pretended  I  did,  much  more  than  I  really  do, 
for  the  sake  of  getting  a  card-table,  for  when 
there  are  a  great  many  people  sitting  in  that  man- 
ner it's  very  tiresome,  so  I  had  a  party  at  whist 
every  night;  but  they  seemed  to  think  it  very  odd 
that  a  young  woman  should  like  cards.  Yesterday 
before  we  set  out,  we  went  to  church  with  them. 
They  have  a  very  comfortable  gallery  with  a  good 
fire.  I  forgot  to  mention  to  you  the  Duke's 


OLD  IRELAND  115 

chaplain  lives  in  the  house  with  them,  and  reads 
prayers  every  morning,  which  all  the  ladies  of 
the  house  attend  very  devoutly,  but  I  can't  say  so 
much  for  the  gentlemen.  I  think  it  a  very  proper 
custom  in  a  large  family,  but  then  I  think  the 
master  as  well  as  the  mistress  should  attend.  Even 
though  there  is  a  great  deal  of  state,  I  could  not 
help  admiring  the  great  grown-up  girls  stealing 
an  opportunity,  when  they  thought  the  company 
did  not  mind  them,  to  hug  their  father  and  mother, 
with  an  appearance  of  affection  that  did  one 
good." 

This  agreeable  letter  shows  that  young  grand- 
mothers have  existed  in  every  century,  and  ap- 
parently Lady  St.  George,  "  looking  fifteen,"  was 
quite  equal  to  any  of  the  present-day  wonders. 
"  A  face  not  handsome  but  well  enough,"  sug- 
gests what  the  French  call  "  une  jolie  laide"  I 
have  never  seen  a  Circassian  "  all  over  loops  and 
tassels "  but  it  sounds  deliciously  youthful  and 
coquettish,  and  "  a  polonaise  trimmed  with  gauze  " 
is  positively  ravishing.  The  little  lady  in  the  morn- 
ing must  have  rivalled  an  aureole  in  her  orange- 
coloured  habit,  embossed  with  gold,  and  "  a  great 
rich  gold  stuff  waistcoat,  with  broad  laced  ruf- 
fles." I  am  sure  the  glossy  white  beaver  hat,  with 
a  bunch  of  white  feathers  on  the  top,  and  a  black 
stock,  created  havoc  among  the  male  sex,  grand- 
mother as  she  was.  The  privacy  of  their  "  com- 


116  HERSELF— IRELAND 

fortable  gallery  with  a  good  fire,"  must  have  been 
an  inducement  to  church  attendance  if  not  to  piety. 
Mr.  Labouchere  once  told  me  that  he  had  read  all 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  novels  in  the  softly  cushioned 
gallery  of  a  church,  where  his  uncle,  Lord  Taunton, 
did  not  go  himself,  but  sent  his  nephews  for  the 
good  of  their  souls.  And  I  like  the  "  great  grown- 
up girls,  the  daughters  of  the  Duke,  stealing  an 
opportunity  of  hugging  their  father  and  mother." 
It  might  have  been  the  history  of  one  of  the  warm- 
hearted aristocratic  families  of  South  Carolina  or 
Louisiana,  and  the  following  paragraph  is  even 
more  reminiscent  of  the  South: 

"  The  house  is  crowded — a  thousand  comes  and 
goes.  We  have  an  immense  table — chocolate — 
honey — hot  bread — cold  bread — brown  bread — 
white  bread — green  bread," — was  green  bread  rye, 
I  wonder — "  and  all-coloured  breads  and  cakes. 
After  breakfast,  Mr.  Scott,  the  Duke's  chaplain, 
reads  a  few  short  prayers,  and  then  we  go  as 
we  like — a  back  room  for  reading,  a  billiard- 
room,  a  printing-room,  a  drawing-room,  and 
whole  suites  of  rooms,  not  forgetting  the  music- 
room. 

"We  dine  at  half-past  four  or  five,  courses 
upon  courses,  which  I  believe  takes  up  two  full 
hours.  It  is  pretty  late  when  we  leave  the  par- 
lour; we  then  go  to  tea,  so  to  cards  about  nine, 
play  till  supper-time — 'tis  pretty  late  by  the  time 


OLD  IRELAND  117 

we  go  to  bed.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  the  part  you 
would  like  best — French  horns  playing  at  break- 
fast and  dinner.  There  are  all  sorts  or  amuse- 
ments; the  gentlemen  are  out  hunting  and  shoot- 
ing all  the  mornings." 

Ireland,  among  all  classes,  and  in  all  centuries, 
seems  to  have  indulged  in  opulent  and  picturesque 
funerals.  Four  thousand  pounds  was  spent  upon 
the  funeral  of  the  first  Lady  Blessington.  She 
died  in  Paris,  and  was  brought  back  to  Dublin  by 
a  whole  retinue  of  mutes  and  mourners.  The 
drawing-room  in  Blessington  House  had  been  con- 
verted into  a  chapelle  ardente.  The  walls  were 
hung  in  purple  silk,  an  altar  was  erected,  upon 
it  stood  gilt  candlesticks  holding  lighted  wax 
candles,  silver  censers  threw  out  clouds  of  in- 
cense, and  in  the  centre  of  the  room  the  magnifi- 
cent coffin  was  placed,  draped  in  a  black  velvet 
pall,  glittering  with  gold  embroidery.  The  mourn- 
ers, six  on  either  side,  swathed  in  crepe  with  bands 
of  white  silk  across  their  breasts,  sat  beside  the 
coffin,  and  for  eight  days  all  of  Dublin  poured  in 
to  view  this  spectacular  exhibition.  And  as 
far  back  as  1786,  the  burial  service  of  the  Right 
Hon.  Lord  Colooney,  son  and  heir  of  the 
Right  Hon.  the  Earl  of  Bellamount,  is  thus 
described : 

"  The  remains  lay  in  the  saloon  in  the  attick 
storey  three  days,  said  time  being  necessary  to 


118  HERSELF— IRELAND 

give  due  notice  to  the  gentlemen  of  the  County, 
who  had  expressed  their  intention  of  showing  their 
regard  to  the  Earl  and  his  family,  by  their  at- 
tendance at  the  interment  from  the  most  distant 
parts.  The  saloon,  which  is  supported  by  pillars 
and  lighted  by  a  cupola,  was  hung  with  a  black 
cloth;  as  also  the  cupola,  which  was  lighted  with 
tapers,  and  constantly  attended  by  upper  ser- 
vants, appointed  to  succeed  each  other  night  and 
day. 

"  On  Wednesday,  10th  inst.,  the  remains  were 
removed  in  the  following  order  from  Bellamount 
Forest,  to  the  Earl's  family  vault  in  the  parish 
church  in  the  town  of  Cootehill,  amidst  the 
greatest  concourse  of  spectators  ever  remembered 
in  the  County  on  any  occasion,  who  all  testified 
their  concern  and  respect  by  the  most  solemn  si- 
lence and  strict  regularity  throughout  the  whole 
of  the  ceremony  in  which  every  affectation  of 
extraordinary  parade  was  avoided.  (?) 

"  The  procession: 

Twelve  conductors,  two  and  two,  with  black  cloaks,  and 

white  staves. 

Physicians,  surgeons,  and  apothecaries,  two  and  two. 
Clerk  of  the  Parish. 

Clergy  of  the  Church  of  England,  two  and  two. 
Dissenting  Clergy,  two  and  two. 
Seceding  Clergy,  two  and  two. 
Moravian  Clergy,  two  and  two. 
Clergy  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  two  and  two. 


END   OF   SALOON,   WITH   ORGAN,   AT   CARTON,   THE 
FAMILY  SEAT  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  LEINSTER 


OLD  IRELAND 


119 


Three  servants 

in  their  full 

liveries,  scarfs 

and  hat-bands, 

uncovered. 


The  Hearse 
drawn  by  six  horses,  with 

plumes,  escutcheons 

and  streamers,  carrying 

the  remains  in  a  black 

velvet  coffin,  enriched 

with  proper 

emblems. 


Three  servants 

in  their  full 

liveries,  scarfs 

and  hat-bands, 

uncovered. 


Bearers. 


Charles  Stuart,  Esq.,  one  of 
the  representatives  of 

the  County. 

Oliver  Nugent,  Esq. 

Thomas  Nesbit,  Esq. 

Member  for  the  Borough  of 

Cavan. 
Rev.  Joseph  Pratt. 


The  High  Sheriff. 

Robert  Saunderson,  Esq. 

Richard  Anketell,  Esq. 

Matthew  Anketell,  Esq. 

Late  High  Sheriff  of 

the  County. 

Richard  Adams,  Esq. 

John  Moutray  James,  Esq. 


Principal  Gentlemen  of  the  County,  two  and  two. 
Robert  Mayne,  Esq.          |         Ralph  Downes,  Esq. 

The  Gentlemen,  Merchants,  Traders,   and  others,   com- 
prising the  Earl's  principal  Tenantry, 
two  and  two. 


120  HERSELF— IRELAND 

A   mourning   coach   and    four   horses,   with   two   women 

servants  in  deep  mourning,  and  white  hoods. 

A  mourning  coach  and  four  horses  with  two  upper  men 

servants,  in  deep  mourning. 

"  The  final  ceremony  was  performed  by  the  Rev. 
Gustavus  Hume,  assisted  by  the  Rev.  Michael  Lee, 
who  waited  for  the  remains  at  the  Earl's  family 
vault.  The  whole  of  the  ceremony  was  conducted 
by  Mr.  Kirchoffer  of  Dublin,  who  had  prepared 
the  hearse,  mourning  coaches,  and  all  other  articles 
expressly  for  the  occasion.  The  only  article  in 
which  Mr.  Kirchoffer  failed  was  the  number  of 
scarves,  which  fell  far  short  of  the  number  of 
qualified  persons  and  attendants." 

The  fashion  of  wearing  wide  white  linen  scarves, 
instead  of  "  lute  string  "  scarves  was  in  full  favour 
at  this  time,  and  the  fashion  obtains  more  or  less 
to  the  present  day,  for  an  Irish  lady  told  me, 
that  her  mother  kept  her  family  supplied  in  pil- 
low-slips and  toilet-covers,  made  from  linen  fu- 
neral bands.  And  I  heard  of  one  economically 
disposed  young  lady  who  fashioned  a  dress  from  a 
collection  of  scarves.  A  witty  friend  called  it  her 
"shroud,"  but,  being  a  healthy-minded  girl,  free 
from  superstition,  and  impervious  to  ridicule,  she 
continued  to  wear  it. 

I  interspersed  reading  the  Georgian  books  with 
Dublin  newspapers  and  was  much  intrigued  with 
these  advertisements: 


OLD  IRELAND  121 

In  grateful  thanksgiving  to  the  Little  Flower  for  many 
favours  received.  M.L. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Little  Flower  for  request  granted, 
publication  promised.  J.G. 

In  triumphant  thanksgiving  to  the  Little  Flower  who 
saved  my  life  at  the  battle  of  the  Somme.  J.M. 

To  satisfy  my  curiosity  I  went  into  a  bookshop 
and  asked  for  a  book  called  The  Little  Flower. 
The  bookseller  said  he  had  only  the  story  of 
The  Springtime  of  a  Little  White  Flower,  and 
I  bought  the  small  book  and  read  the  history  of 
Marie-Fran9oise-Therese  Martin. 

She  was  born  at  Ale^ons  in  France,  in  1873,  so 
if  she  had  lived  she  would  still  be  a  young  woman. 
Louis  Martin,  her  father,  in  his  early  youth,  had 
presented  himself  at  the  Monastery  of  the  Great 
St.  Bernard  to  become  a  priest. — I  once  spent 
two  days  at  the  Hospice;  never  will  I  forget  that 
mountain  honey,  nor  the  beautiful  young  French- 
man, whom  I  saw  admitted  into  the  priesthood. 
Only  the  most  zealous  souls  desire  to  serve  in  this 
lonely  place,  as  the  climate  is  so  severe,  they  rarely 
live  more  than  five  years.  The  wise  Priest  of  St. 
Bernard  found  that  Louis  Martin  had  no  vocation 
for  the  priesthood,  and  he  returned  to  France. 

Zelie  Guerin  had  made  an  equally  fruitless 
effort  to  be  admitted  amongst  the  Sisters  of 
Charity.  She  was  not  only  pious  but  pretty  and 


122  HERSELF— IRELAND 

light-hearted,  so  the  Mother  Superior  sent  her  into 
the  world  again.  A  kind  fate  brought  these  two 
young  devout  Catholics  together,  they  loved  each 
other — married — and  Madame  Martin  became  the 
mother  of  five  daughters,  who  entered  one  or 
another  of  the  convents  of  France. 

Therese  was  very  like  her  mother,  pretty,  sweet, 
wonderfully  appealing  and  attractive,  and  from 
babyhood  she  disclosed  a  most  poetical  nature, 
loving  to  gather  garlands  of  wild  flowers,  delight- 
ing in  magnificent  sunsets  and  silvery  moonlight, 
appreciating  musical  language,  and  revealing  an 
exquisite  spiritual  nature.  Beautiful,  with  an  im- 
perious little  manner,  she  was  called  by  her  own 
family  "The  Little  Queen."  Her  mother  died 
when  she  was  four  years  old,  and  she  was  brought 
up  by  her  father  and  her  eldest  sister.  They 
were  an  extremely  devout  family,  going  to  church 
every  day,  but  Therese  says  with  her  proud  and 
ardent  nature  the  world  might  have  attracted  her 
if  it  had  not  been  for  her  early  surroundings,  and 
the  example  of  her  saintly  family.  "  The  Soul  of 
a  Child,"  she  says,  "  is  like  soft  wax,  upon  which 
any  impression,  good  or  bad,  can  be  made,"  which 
is  only  another  variant  of,  "  Give  me  a  Child  for 
seven  years,  and  I  will  set  my  seal  upon  his 
future." 

With  her  exalted  nature,  and  the  imagination  of 
a  poet,  it  was  natural  that  she  should  develop  an 


OLD  IRELAND  123 

early  ambition  to  do  great  and  noble  deeds.  She 
says  in  her  Diary : 

"  After  reading  the  Life  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 
I  too,  was  consumed  with  a  desire  for  souls,  and 
was  eager  to  save  them  from  eternal  flames  at  any 
cost.  Soon  afterwards  I  heard  of  a  great  criminal, 
whose  paralysed  conscience  had  no  fear  of  eternal 
damnation,  being  condemned  to  death  for  frightful 
crimes.  I  prayed,  fasting  and  without  cessation,  for 
the  hardness  of  his  spirit  to  melt  away,  and  the 
murderer  had  a  sudden  conversion,  and  repented. 
Since  then  my  desire  to  save  souls  has  grown 
stronger  every  day." 

Therese,  with  surprising  wisdom,  thought  the 
best  preparation  for  her  spiritual  life  should  con- 
sist in  breaking  her  own  will,  in  conquering  her 
temper,  and  in  being  unselfish  to  her  family. 
When  she  went  to  the  Abbe  Delatorelle  with  the 
request  to  become  a  nun,  a  lovely  child  of  fifteen, 
with  shining  hair  and  eyes,  and  a  fairylike  beauty 
of  form,  he  gave  a  decided  no  to  her  extraordinary 
request;  but  he  did  not  count  on  her  gentle  but 
firm  persistence.  She  persuaded  her  father  to  take 
her  to  Rome,  where  she  hoped  to  gain  the  consent 
of  the  Pope.  Leo  XIII  was  much  touched  with 
the  holy  desire  of  this  wonderful  young  girl,  who 
wished  permission  at  once  to  enter  Carmel,  but 
refused  to  make  an  immediate  decision,  and  she 
returned  to  Lisieux  bitterly  disappointed.  In  a 


124  HERSELF— IRELAND 

few  months,  however,  the  earnestly  sought  per- 
mission was  granted,  and  Therese  received  the 
habit  of  a  nun  on  the  10th  of  January. 

She  describes  her  spiritual  life  with  great  ardour 
and  simplicity,  speaks  with  frankness  of  "  the 
aridity  of  her  soul,"  but  that  passed.  She  never 
regretted  the  world,  not  even  "  the  delight  of  ram- 
bling through  the  meadows  enamelled  with  the 
treasures  of  spring."  For  nine  years  Therese 
was  a  devout  and  inspiring  little  nun;  even  the 
holiest  of  the  Sisters  considered  her  a  saint.  Her 
life  was  directed  by  those  most  beautiful  words,  so 
often  forgotten,  "  A  new  commandment  give  I 
unto  you,  that  ye  love  one  another;  as  I  have 
loved  you."  How  any  very  young  woman  could 
have  been  so  instinctively  wise  is  a  mystery,  except 
that  genius  takes  the  place  of  experience,  and 
Therese  had  genius  for  spirituality.  She  was 
only  twenty-four  when  she  died.  Death  came  to 
her  at  the  threshold  of  womanhood. 

In  her  Diary  she  says: 

"  It  has  ever  been  my  desire  to  become  a  saint, 
but,  alas,  I  have  always  realised  that  when  I  com- 
pare myself  to  a  saint,  there  exists  the  same  differ- 
ence as  in  Nature  between  a  mountain  whose 
summit  is  lost  in  the  clouds,  and  the  obscure 
grain  of  sand  trampled  under  foot  by  the 
passerby." 

Almost  at  the  end  of  her  Diary  she  writes: 


OLD  IRELAND  125 

"  I  feel  that  a  change  is  coming,  my  mission  on 
earth  is  soon  to  begin.  I  will  ask  to  spend  my 
heaven  in  doing  good  upon  earth.  Thus  after  my 
death  I  will  let  fall  a  shower  of  roses." 

How  did  so  sinless  a  creature  have  such  a 
realisation  of  sin,  how  did  she  know  the  crying 
need  we  have  on  earth  of  invisible  angels  to  guide 
our  wayward  footsteps? 

The  devotees  of  Therese  are  satisfied  that  since 
her  death  she  has  been  busy  working  on  this 
planet.  Her  modesty  was  great,  she  always  in- 
sisted that  she  was  humble  and  unknown;  for  this 
reason  probably,  it  occurred  to  one  who  had  re- 
ceived her  favours,  that  only  by  publicity  could 
her  fame  go  abroad,  and  help  those  who  desired 
her  intercession,  and  thus  began  these  strange, 
touching,  and  pathetic  little  advertisements. 

Among  the  many  humble  acknowledgments  of 
her  help,  a  lady  writes  that  in  June,  1911,  her 
little  New  Forest  pony  had  an  apparently  fatal 
attack  of  pneumonia.  The  groom  and  veterinary 
surgeon  had  been  up  all  night  with  him.  In  the 
morning  he  was  worse,  at  midday  the  groom  called 
her  to  see  the  struggling  animal,  who  trembling 
and  quivering,  was  hoarsely  gasping  for  breath, 
while  his  head  hung  low,  indicating  collapse.  The 
lady,  with  tears  running  down  her  face,  spoke  to 
him  tenderly,  and  he  turned  his  piteous  and  terror- 
stricken  eyes  to  her,  but  could  not  lift  his  droop- 


126  HERSELF— IRELAND 

ing  head.  The  groom  said  he  had  neither  eaten 
nor  drunken  anything  for  twenty-four  hours,  his 
strength  was  going,  and  if  his  legs  gave  way,  he 
would  lie  down  and  die.  His  mistress  told  him 
to  make  haste  to  the  veterinary  surgeon,  and  ask 
for  strong  straps  to  support  the  pony's  body 
from  the  top  of  the  stall.  The  groom  ran  off,  and 
the  lady  went  outside  to  her  two  little  daughters, 
and  called  to  them: 

"  Prince  is  dying.  Pray,  pray,  quickly  to  the 
Little  Flower,  and  ask  her  to  save  your  poor  little 
friend!" 

On  going  back  to  the  stall  she  lifted  the  pony's 
head  to  her  shoulder  and  said,  "  Don't  give  up,  old 
boy,  you  are  not  dead  yet,"  and  she  too  begged 
the  Little  Flower  to  save  the  suffering  animal. 
Suddenly  he  raised  his  head  from  her  shoulder 
and  slowly  walked  two  or  three  paces. 

The  lady  called  to  her  little  girl,  "Eleanor, 
Prince  is  better;  bring  him  a  bit  of  sugar." 

There  was  some  ground  barley  in  his  box  and 
a  pail  of  water  near  by;  before  the  little  girl  had 
time  to  return  with  the  sugar,  he  had  taken  a 
long  drink  and  had  begun  to  munch  his  food. 
When  the  veterinary  surgeon  and  the  groom  ar- 
rived with  big  leather  belts,  they  were  amazed  at 
the  animal's  miraculous  recovery. 

The  Little  Flower's  pony  is  still  alive,  merry 
and  healthy,  running  about  the  lawn,  with  the 


OLD  IRELAND  127 

halter  about  his  neck  woven  of  flowers,  and  happy 
children  riding  on  his  back.  Perhaps  one  day  his 
patron  saint  will  be  known  as  the  friend  who  will 
plead  for  all  dumb  creatures  who  cannot  plead 
for  themselves. 

But  from  the  roar  of  the  guns  comes  the  tender- 
est  of  all  the  stories  about  the  beloved  friend  of 
Ireland. 

One  eventide,  a  doctor  walking  over  the  battle- 
field was  surprised  to  find  many  of  the  soldiers 
holding  little  white  flowers  in  their  hands.  And 
he  saw  a  young  nun  stooping  over  the  dead. 
When  he  spoke  to  her  she  lifted  a  lovely  face, 
and  smiled  but  made  no  answer.  He  related  the 
incident  to  the  Mother  Superior  of  the  hospital; 
she  said  none  of  her  sisters  were  out  at  that  hour, 
and  as  the  doctor  insisted  he  could  not  have  been 
mistaken,  she  called  the  nuns  together,  and  asked 
him  if  he  recognised  among  them  the  sister  whom 
he  had  seen  on  the  battlefield. 

He  said,  "  No,  she  is  not  here,  but  that  is  her 
picture  on  the  wall." 

It  was  a  portrait  of  the  Little  Flower. 

And  that  is  how  I  like  best  to  imagine  her. 
On  the  dreadful  field  of  battle,  where  mothers  and 
sisters  and  wives  may  not  go,  bending  tenderly 
over  their  solitary  dead,  and  gently  touching  their 
hands,  as  she  fills  them  with  the  shining  white 
flowers  of  Paradise. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IRISH  WIT 

"  Come  now,  Pat"  said  a  facetious  bounder,  "  tell  me  the  biggest 
lie  you  ever  told  and  I'll  give  you  this  glass  of  whiskey." 
"  Begorra,  your  honour's  a  perfect  gintleman." 

THERE  is  no  Irish  type,  any  more  than  there  is 
an  American  type,  or  an  English  type,  but  there 
is  Irish  wit  and  character.  It  is  almost  unneces- 
sary to  say  the  people  as  a  race  are  modest  and 
chaste.  Statistics  prove  that  a  much  smaller  num- 
ber of  illegitimate  children  are  born  in  Ireland 
than  in  any  part  of  the  United  Kingdom.  And 
the  Irish  are  not  greedy  about  either  money  pos- 
sessions or  food.  Mr.  Dooley  has  said  that  the 
difference  between  a  hungry  Irishman  and  a  hun- 
gry Englishman  is,  that  the  hungry  Irishman 
dreams  of  a  feast  of  the  gods,  with  himself  in  one 
of  the  front  seats  drinking  mead  and  honey  out 
of  golden  goblets.  But  the  hungry  Englishman 
is  thinking,  "  If  I  only  had  that  fine  piece  of 
steaming  hot  tripe  out  of  the  cookshop  round  the 
corner."  And  there  is  something  to  be  said  in 
favour  of  the  Englishman,  for  the  tripe  is  obtain- 
able, while  the  golden  goblet  and  the  mead  are 
only  visions. 

128 


IRISH  WIT  129 

The  minds  of  the  Irish  have  a  spiritual  quality 
which  you  can  see  in  their  clear,  thoughtful  eyes. 

An  Irish  girl  in  London  was  visiting  me,  and 
I  said  to  a  friend,  a  Dutchman,  with  only  a 
limited  vocabulary  of  English,  "  Hasn't  Charlotte 
lovely  eyes?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said ;  "  dere  is  something  in." 

I  know  women  of  different  nationalities  with 
bright,  handsome  eyes,  but  they  are  just  eyes 
"  there  is  nothing  in,"  while  Irish  eyes  speak  of 
beautiful  aspirations,  contemplations,  tendernesses, 
sorrows,  dreams,  and  visions.  You  look  and  look, 
and  they  reveal  much,  but  not  everything;  there  is 
something  always  of  mystery  and  reserve,  of  mer- 
riment and  pathos,  which  is  yet  unfathomed. 
Form  and  features  can  be  exquisite  in  modelling 
and  colour,  but  nothing  is  so  entirely  fascinating 
as  the  play  of  expression  upon  mobile  features,  in 
other  words,  the  revelation  of  the  human  soul. 
How  well  Re  jane  understands  this.  She  is  not  in 
the  least  a  pretty  woman,  her  features  are  irregu- 
lar, her  face  is  too  short,  and  her  figure  is  not 
especially  good,  but  she  does  not  hesitate  to  sur- 
round herself  with  actresses  of  exceeding  beauty. 
When  she  is  on  the  stage  they  are  forgotten ;  every 
one  is  entranced  by  her  little  plain  face,  for  upon 
it  you  see  revealed  the  soul,  heart,  and  mind  of  the 
woman  whose  story  she  portrays.  Her  changing 
thought,  her  varying  n\pod,  her  every  emotion. 


130  HERSELF— IRELAND 

The  reposeful  beauties  in  their  exquisite  French 
clothes,  come  and  go  unnoticed,  even  the  men  in 
the  audience  are  engrossed  in  watching  the  sun- 
shine or  shadow  on  that  queer  little  visage. 

I  said  to  an  Irishman,  "  You  are  a  very  aston- 
ishing people,  there  are  so  many  unexpected  de- 
velopments in  your  character." 

"  To  ourselves,"  he  said,  "  they  are  unexpected 
too.  We  do  not  surprise  strangers  any  more  than 
we  astonish  ourselves.  We  never  know  what 
depths,  or  heights,  or  desperations  are  slumbering 
within  us  until  they  are  called  forth  by  an  unex- 
pected turn  of  Fate." 

Mr.  Parnell  was  considered  cold  and  reserved, 
but  in  reality  the  frigidity  of  his  exterior  covered 
fiery  emotions;  and  he  had  not  only  the  power  of 
a  noble  desperation  himself,  but  he  could  tempo- 
rarily impress  it  upon  the  most  cautious  of  his 
followers.  The  men  about  him  did  not  stop  to 
analyse  his  force;  they  simply  felt  it,  absorbed  it, 
and  yielded  to  it.  In  Ireland  the  outward  and 
visible  man  is  by  no  means  the  sign  of  an  inward 
and  spiritual  grace.  You  will  see  a  red-faced, 
bright-eyed,  white-whiskered  personage  dressed  in 
a  heavy  check  suit,  looking  like  a  well-to-do  rac- 
ing character.  You  ask  who  he  is,  and  are  told 
he  is  a  serious-minded  barrister  and  K.C.,  with 
no  sporting  proclivities,  who  amuses  himself  by  an 
idiosyncracy  of  costume.  You  meet  another  man, 


IRISH  WIT  131 

tall,  thin,  pale,  kind  and  gentle,  with  grey,  spiritual 
eyes  and  a  soothing,  pleasant  voice.  You  ask  who 
he  is,  and  are  astonished  to  learn  that  he  has  been 
a  noted  Fenian,  and  yet  there  is  nothing  about 
him  to  suggest  either  daring  courage  or  mad 
chance.  I  said  to  a  man  of  gentle  manner,  child- 
like blue  eyes,  and  a  soft  voice,  "  Were  you  pleased 
to  have  General  Maxwell  leave  Ireland?  "  "  Yes," 
he  said,  "  it  was  nicessary  for  his  own  good." 
"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  I  said.  He  an- 
swered as  frankly  and  simply  as  a  child,  "  If  he 
had  stayed  he  would  have  been  shot."  I  laughed 
aloud.  "You  don't  mean  it?"  "Yes,"  he  said 
with  a  gentle  sigh,  "  it  was  nicessary." 

And  who  would  suspect  Professor  MacNeill, 
a  contemplative  scholar,  one  of  the  five  men  in 
Ireland  who  understands  Middle  Irish — the  almost 
impossible  language  and  literature  of  the  eleventh 
century — with  being  implicated  in  what  led  to  the 
wildest  and  most  hopeless  rebellion  that  Ireland 
has  ever  suffered.  Her  children  are  too  natural, 
and,  perhaps,  too  many-sided  to  stage  their  parts. 
In  England  or  America  a  statesman  or  sports- 
man dresses  to  his  profession.  A  United  States 
Senator  feels  it  incumbent  on  him  not  only  to 
clothe  himself  as  a  grave  and  reverend  body,  but 
to  adopt  a  certain  sort  of  portentous  five-syllabled 
manner  that  harmonises  with  an  important  frock- 
coat  and  a  black  tie.  These  surprises  are  what 


132  HERSELF— IRELAND 

make  the  Irish  people  so  interesting,  for  here  a 
serious  coat  and  black  necktie  might  very  well 
clothe  the  wittiest,  the  most  light-hearted,  and  the 
gayest  character.  Take,  for  example,  Father 
Healy.  He  wore  the  garb  of  a  priest,  lived  not 
only  a  holy  and  self -sacrificing  life,  but  was  really 
an  ascetic  giving  himself  very  few  corporeal  in- 
dulgences; and  yet  there  was  never  a  gayer  spirit, 
or  wittier  tongue  than  his.  Dr.  Mahaffy,  the 
Provost  of  Trinity  College,  a  wit  himself,  and  a 
judge  of  wit,  said  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things 
of  Father  Healy  that  has  ever  been  said  of  living 
man:  "  He  was  never  at  a  loss  for  a  kindly  word, 
to  meet  him  in  the  street  was  always  like  pass- 
ing from  shade  into  sunshine."  How  few  there 
are — no  matter  how  widely  travelled  or  how 
large  our  circle  of  friends — who  can  say,  "  I  have 
a  sunshine  friend."  And  in  the  British  Isles, 
where  the  sun  shines  so  little,  to  be  sure  that  every 
time  you  meet  a  man,  no  matter  how  grey  the  day 
or  lowering  the  sky  you  pass  from  shadow  to 
sunshine,  makes  him  blessed,  aye,  thrice  blessed, 
among  his  fellows. 

I  never  knew  Father  Healy,  but  Mr.  La- 
bouchere  told  me  a  great  deal  about  him,  and  he 
not  only  revelled  in  his  wit,  but  he  greatly  admired 
the  simplicity,  naturalness,  and  instinctive  refine- 
ment of  this  gentle  parish  priest.  In  spite  of 
going  to  the  Viceroy's  big  parties,  with  the  only 


IRISH  WIT  133 

addition  to  his  toilet  a  pair  of  freshly  blacked 
shoes,  he  was  nevertheless  a  true  gentleman,  for 
inside,  he  was  as  fine  as  silk.  Mr.  Labouchere 
was  a  wit,  as  all  the  world  knows,  and  a  very 
natural  and  spontaneous  one,  but,  unlike  Father 
Healy,  he  spared  nobody;  neither  himself,  nor  his 
friends,  nor  his  family,  if  through  them  he  could 
contribute  to  the  gaiety  of  nations. 

One  night  he  was  in  a  particularly  debonair  and 
malicious  mood,  and  we  were  indulging  in  frank 
personalities,  when  I  said,  "Do  you  know  that 
you  look  like  a  Jew?  " 

"  Why  not,  why  not? "  his  eyebrows  going  up 
and  his  eyes  dancing  with  mischief;  "  I  remember 
when  I  was  an  attache  of  the  British  Legation  in 
Vienna,  walking  one  day  on  the  Kolowrat  Ring, 
I  met  a  very  distinguished  and  patriarchal  old 
Jew.  He  beamed  on  me  and  said,  '  Is  this  Henry 
Labouchere?'  I  said,  'It  is.'  *  Let  me  shake 
you  by  the  hand.'  Looking  at  me  most  affection- 
ately, he  gave  my  hand  an  enveloping  grip. 
*  When  I  went  to  London  as  a  very  young  man  to 
learn  English,  I  spent  every  afternoon  in  the  salon 
of  your  dear  and  beautiful  grandmother.  Let  me 
shake  you  by  the  other  hand.'  And  with  that  al- 
most double  embrace,  it  was  suddenly  borne  upon 
me  that  I  was  shaking  hands  with — my  grand- 
father!" 

I  am  sure  until  I  told  Labby  that  he  looked 


134  HERSELF— IRELAND 

like  a  Jew,  the  patriarch  had  been  non-existent, 
and  was  created  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  for  my 
delectation.  He  said  I  was  his  best  audience,  and 
always  made  him  confident  that  his  most  insipid 
joke  contained  savour. 

Father  Healy,  after  a  terribly  racking  day,  be- 
ginning with  Mass  at  seven  o'clock,  a  morning's 
sick  calls  up  and  down  rickety  staircases,  from 
attic  to  cellar,  and  a  very  worrying  afternoon, 
came  home  jaded  and  tired,  threw  himself  in  a 
chair  and  groaned  audibly. 

An  old  charwoman,  who  was  polishing  the  grate, 
looked  up  and  said,  "  What  is  the  matter  with  you 
at  all? " 

"  I  believe  I  am  in  love,"  he  said. 

She  answered,  "  Troth,  and  I  wouldn't  put  it 
apast  ye,"  and  continued  her  polishing. 

A  joke  of  this  kind  was  particularly  amusing, 
as  it  formed  a  direct  contrast  to  the  common- 
sense  reality  of  Father  Healy's  pure  life;  and  yet 
he  could,  and  did  sometimes,  pay  a  pretty  com- 
pliment. 

One  day  he  met  two  young  ladies,  the  Countess 
of  Wicklow  and  a  friend,  going  up  a  steep  hill, 
making  vain  efforts  to  urge  on  a  reluctant  donkey 
harnessed  to  a  little  phaeton. 

"  Oh,  Father  Healy,  we  are  so  glad  to  see  you. 
What  shall  we  do  to  make  this  beast  move? " 

"Go  before  him,"  said  the  Padre;  "and  he  is 


IRISH  WIT  135 

a  bigger  donkey  than  I  take  him  to  be,  if  he 
doesn't  follow  you." 

An  intellectual  Peer  in  England  was  giving  a 
large  house-party,  and  wrote  to  Father  Healy  in- 
viting him  to  be  one  of  the  guests.  Miss  Bryce, 
a  very  pretty  girl,  hearing  of  the  invitation  said, 

"  Oh,  Father  Healy,  I  wish  you  could  take  me 
in  your  pocket." 

"  It  is  not  in  my  pocket,  but  as  a  feather  in  my 
cap  you  should  come,"  he  replied.  Which  is  as 
neat  as  Oscar  Wilde's  answer  to  the  Customs 
House  officer  in  New  York,  who  asked  impor- 
tantly, "  What  have  you  to  declare,  Mr.  Wilde? " 

"  Nothing — except — my  genius,"  he  answered. 

That  so  much  ana  exists  about  Father  Healy's 
wit  shows  how  constant  it  was,  for  wit  is  an 
evanescent  quantity,  born  of  the  moment,  and 
quick  to  take  flight  from  the  most  retentive 
memory.  Frederic  Norton,  the  musical  com- 
poser, is  perhaps,  the  wittiest  man  I  know;  he  has 
more  than  once  made  me  laugh  until  I  cried  at  the 
description  of  some  amusing  experience,  but  at  the 
moment  I  can  only  recall  a  story  of  his  childhood. 

When  he  was  five,  and  his  little  sister  Emily 
six  years  of  age,  they  were  awakened  in  the  night 
by  a  loud  noise  on  the  landing.  Frederic  was 
frightened,  but  Emmie  more  courageously  opened 
the  door,  and  went  out  to  see  what  had  happened. 
Not  daring  to  move,  he  called  to  her,  "  Em,  if 


136  HERSELF— IRELAND 

that's  a  burglar  bring  him  to  me."  Even  at  that 
early  age  his  mind  was  capable  of  subtleties. 

And  only  two  or  three  stories  remain  in  my 
memory  of  my  eldest  aunt,  who  was  very  witty. 
A  pretty  cousin  was  telling  one  day  with  smiles 
and  no  blushes,  of  a  young  man's  devotion,  and 
Aunt  Betty  said,  "  Molly,  you're  a  fool,  but  you're 
not  a  born  fool;  you're  a  made  fool — by  men." 

In  the  early  days  of  Texas,  in  the  primitive 
houses,  instead  of  plaster,  canvas  was  nailed  on  the 
light  wooden  partitions,  and  it  was  possible  to  hear 
every  word  of  conversation  from  one  room  to  the 
other.  My  Aunt  Betty,  sitting  sewing,  heard  my 
father,  who  was  desperately  in  love  with  my 
mother,  ask  her  to  marry  him.  When  she  refused 
there  was  a  silence,  a  suppressed  groan,  and  as  he 
rose  from  his  chair  he  said,  "  Madam,  to-morrow 
morning  you  will  find  my  body  in  the  Colorado." 
With  this  heart-broken  threat  he  retired  to  his 
room.  The  next  morning  Aunt  Betty,  always  an 
early  riser,  met  him  coming  back,  fresh  and  hand- 
some, from  the  bath-house.  "  Good-morning, 
Judge,"  she  said,  "  I  am  surprised  to  see  you;  I 
thought  you  were  in  the  Colorado."  But  the  sec- 
ond or  third  time  that  my  father  proposed  to  my 
mother,  she  must  have  accepted  him,  for  here  am  I 
to  tell  the  tale. 

Father  Healy  asked  a  friend,  "  Have  you  seen 
McCarthy  lately? " 


IRISH  WIT  137 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  he  is  pulling  the  devil  by  the 
tail." 

"  Ah,"  said  Father  Healy,  "  there  are  a  great 
many  doing  that;  the  devil  must  have  a  very 
strong  tail." 

Father  Healy  was  once  comparing  notes  with 
the  Rev.  Dr.  O'Fay  about  a  recent  journey 
which  they  had  both  made  to  France. 

"  Of  course  you  were  au  fait  at  the  lingo,"  said 
Dr.  O'Fay. 

"No;  I  was  only  O'Healy  at  it,"  answered 
Father  Healy. 

The  wit  of  other  people  amused  Father  Healy 
quite  as  much  as  his  own.  He  once  heard  two 
men  preparing  for  a  fight.  "  Come  on,"  said  the 
smaller  of  the  two ;  "  come  on.  I  never  saw  a 
broth  that  was  too  hot  for  me,  or  the  mait  that  was 
too  fat  for  me." 

One  day  he  was  with  Dr.  Kenrick,  who  missed 
his  hat  from  the  hall.  They  went  into  Plunket 
Street,  a  famous  market  for  old  clothes,  and  found 
a  woman  in  the  act  of  selling  it. 

"  I  only  wanted  it  as  a  relic  of  your  River- 
ence,"  she  said. 

"  You  seemed  very  anxious  to  get  rid  of  it," 
said  Dr.  Kenrick. 

"  I  was  merely  asking  the  value  of  it,"  said  the 
quick-witted  crone.  Her  answer  much  delighted 
Father  Healy.  . 


138  HERSELF— IRELAND 

When  he  was  a  boy,  he  saw  a  large  pig  squeez- 
ing himself  through  a  narrow  gate.  "  Look,"  he 
said  to  his  father,  "  at  Bacon's  Essays." 

When  he  went  to  school  at  Castleknock,  a  very 
holy  Father  catechising  a  sailor's  son  said,  "  What 
is  cursing? " 

"  Wishing  ill  to  one's  neighbour." 

"  Can  you  give  me  a  more  comprehensive  defini- 
tion, my  child?" 

"  Damn  your  eyes,  holy  Father." 

Dr.  Murray,  a  great  preacher  and  a  friend  of 
Father  Healy,  was  preaching  at  Clones.  The 
chapel  was  packed  to  the  door.  Nearing  the  close 
of  the  sermon  he  said,  "  One  word  more,  and  I 
am  done." 

"  Oh,  my  darlint ! "  exclaimed  an  old  woman, 
throwing  up  her  hands;  "that  you  may  never  be 
done." 

These  stories  were  amongst  Father  Healy's 
varied  repertoire,  but  his  own  continual  quickness 
of  wit  was  like  a  stream  that  never  runs  dry. 
Florence  MacCarthy,  a  poet,  said  to  Father  Healy 
he  was  going  to  the  ancient  territory  of  Desmond 
for  a  grand  celebration. 

"  All  the  MacCarthys  will  attend,  including  the 
MacCarthy  More." 

"  If  all  the  MacCarthys  attend,  there  cannot 
be  a  MacCarthy  more,"  said  Father  Healy. 

One  evening  Father  Healy  was  going  to  dine 


IRISH  WIT  139 

with  Dr.  Lee.  He  was  a  trifle  late,  and  some  one 
said,  "  Father  Healy  is  making  his  toilet."  "  Oh," 
said  Dr.  Lee,  "  when  Father  Healy 's  hands  are 
washed  his  toilet  is  made."  Immediately  after- 
wards the  lively  curate  entered  the  room,  and  when 
the  remark  was  repeated  to  him,  Dr.  Lee  tried  to 
disclaim  it.  "  Oh,  don't  deny  it,  don't  deny  it," 
said  Father  Healy  gaily ;  "  it  is  the  best  thing 
that  you  have  ever  said." 

He  was  very  popular  for  sick  calls,  and  I  do  not 
wonder  at  this,  for  his  gay  presence  must  have 
been  worth  many  bottles  of  physic. 

A  messenger  came  one  day  to  beg  him  to  hurry, 
as  a  man  near  Bray  had  been  shot,  "  when  he  was 
fiddlin'  with  a  gun  it  went  off  grazin'  his  toes,  and 
carryin'  away  his  shoe." 

"  Don't  tell  me,"  said  Father  Healy,  "  that  it  is 
a  case  of  shoeaside." 

He  was  equally  popular  in  the  confessional,  but 
even  there  he  could  not  eradicate  his  sense  of  hu- 
mour. A  little  girl  at  a  convent  in  Bray,  making 
her  confession  was  in  anguish;  her  words  were  ut- 
tered in  gasps,  and  with  difficulty  she  implied  that 
she  had  called  one  of  God's  Anointed  by  a  dis- 
respectful nickname. 

"  If  you  mean  me,  my  child,  you  are  at  full  lib- 
erty to  call  me  anything  you  like,  from  a  donkey 
to  an  elephant,"  said  her  spiritual  adviser. 

An  Irish  friend  told  me  that  when  she  was  a 


140  HERSELF— IRELAND 

little  girl,  she  went  to  confession,  and  the  priest, 
at  the  end  of  a  long  afternoon,  sat  with  his  eyes 
closed  and  asked  rather  wearily,  "  Well,  my  child, 
which  one  of  the  commandments  have  you 
broken?"  Thinking  to  make  herself  important, 
she  answered,  "All  of  them,  Father."  And  at 
once  he  was  wide  awake,  with  much  admonition 
at  his  disposal,  particularly  that  which  related  to 
exaggeration.  How  Father  Healy  would  have 
enjoyed  this  unexpected  confession. 

Sir  William  Wilde  was  well  known  to  be  very 
slovenly  in  his  person.  Judge  Barry,  dining  with 
Father  Healy  shortly  after  Sir  William  had  been 
knighted  said,  "  I  left  Holyhead  in  a  gale,  and 

came  across  the  dirtiest  night "  "  It  must 

have  been  Wilde,"  said  Father  Healy. 

A  man  was  describing  the  horrors  of  electro- 
cution to  Father  Healy.  "  I  only  know  one 
thing  more  terrible,"  said  Father  Healy; 
"  elocution." 

A  popular  doctor  from  Dublin  made  him  a  visit 
at  Bray.  Father  Healy  gave  him  a  rod,  and  sent 
him  to  fish  in  the  River  Dargle. 

The  doctor  returned  at  the  end  of  the  day  and 
said,  "  I  have  killed  nothing  except  time." 

"  That  is  more  than  you  could  say  if  you  were 
at  home,"  said  Father  Healy. 

One  evening  he  met  at  dinner  a  famous  com- 
poser whose  name  he  had  forgotten;  shaking  his 


IRISH  WIT  141 

hand  he  softly  sang  the  tune  of  one  of  the  mu- 
sician's best-known  works.  The  artist  was  deeply 
gratified,  and  never  found  out  that  it  was  only  his 
music  that  remained  in  the  good  priest's  memory. 

Even  in  America  we  have  lively  wit;  very  often, 
as  in  the  case  of  Daisy  Gummery,  it  is  due  to 
Irish  ancestors.  The  wife  of  one  of  the  Professors 
of  Princeton  was  giving  an  afternoon  party. 
She  introduced  a  tall  German  to  Mrs.  Barker 
Gummery.  His  name  to  her  meant  nothing.  To 
him  it  was  the  pivot  of  the  world,  for  he  was  the 
leader  of  various  important  orchestras,  and  a  com- 
poser of  some  eminence.  Daisy's  impression  was 
that  her  hostess  had  murmured,  "  Herr  Stenke," 
so  in  open-hearted  American  fashion,  she  began 
her  introductions,  "  Professor  and  Mrs.  Meredith 
— Herr  Stenke;  Professor  Whiteside — Herr 
Stenke;  Mrs.  Miller— Herr  Stenke,"  but  each 
moment  the  glowering  German's  visage  became 
more  sour  and  resentful.  Finally,  he  lifted  his 
strong  Teuton  fist,  and  beating  upon  his  breast, 
in  an  increasing  crescendo  said,  "  Stengleburg! 
Stengleburg!!  Stengleburg!!!"  At  the  third 
beat,  Daisy  looked  up  and  asked  with  reproach- 
ful sweetness,  "Not  the  great  Stengleburg!" 
"Ze  zame — ze  zame,"  he  said  belligerently.  Not 
even  Father  Healy  could  have  done  better  than 
that. 

When  living  at  Bray,  Father  Healy  had  for  a 


142  HERSELF— IRELAND 

parishoner  a  wonderful  old  lady,  Mrs.  Dease,  who 
lived  to  be  ninety  or  more.  She  had  a  strong  char- 
acter, strong  opinions,  and  a  strong  grey  beard. 
Father  Healy  sometimes  read  aloud  to  her.  He 
had  a  beautiful  voice,  fine  elocution,  and  he  was 
reading  the  pathetic  pages  of  Sterne.  "  God  tem- 
pers the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,"  made  the  old 
lady  momentarily  tender,  he  hesitated  when  he 
came  to  an  oath,  but  as  he  read  further  it  was 
merged  in  that  beautiful  well-known  little  pas- 
sage, "  The  accusing  Spirit  which  flew  up  to 
Heaven's  Chancery  with  the  oath  blushed  as  he 
gave  it  in,  and  the  Recording  Angel  as  he  wrote 
it  down  dropped  a  tear  upon  the  word,  and  blotted 
it  out  for  ever."  Presently  he  stopped  short  and 
cleared  his  throat. 

"What  is  the  hitch  about?"  said  Mrs.  Dease, 
pulling  off  her  spectacles. 

"  It  was  getting  a  little  broad,  Madam,"  re- 
plied the  Priest. 

"  Oh,  well,  we're  not  so  narrow  ourselves ;  go 
on,"  she  said. 

She  was  at  this  time  between  eighty  and  ninety 
years  of  age,  and  still  attracted  her  friends  by 
her  caustic  wit. 

One  day,  on  his  arrival  for  an  almost  daily  visit, 
Father  Healy  said,  "  There  is  an  old  woman  at  the 
door,  Ma'am,  soliciting  alms." 

do  you  call  an  old  woman?  "  asked  Mrs. 


IRISH  WIT  143 

Dease  in  a  sharp  voice,  anticipating  perhaps  that 
Father  Healy  would  say  sixty  or  seventy. 

"  One  about  a  hundred  and  fifty,  I  should  say." 

The  old  lady  was  charmed  with  the  prospect  of 
increased  longevity  and  gave  Father  Healy  a 
hearty  handshake.  On  another  occasion  to  encour- 
age her  he  said  old  Parr  had  lived  to  a  hundred 
and  two  years.  Old  Mrs.  Dease  said  with  a  shrill 
laugh,  that  she  was  very  much  below  par. 

At  a  clerical  gathering  at  Ballybrack  a  party 
of  priests  were  discussing  verse  14  of  Psalm  cxiii,, 
"  They  have  ears  and  they  do  not  hear,  they  have 
noses  and  they  do  not  smell."  Two  priests  came 
from  the  end  of  the  room  and  asked  what  their 
confreres  had  been  saying.  "  That  you  have 
large  noses,  and  do  not  hear,"  replied  Father 
Healy.  Even  though  the  priests  had  large  noses, 
they,  with  the  others,  laughed  good-humour edly. 

Father  Healy  was  no  politician,  and  whatever 
his  political  views,  he  kept  them  to  himself.  One 
evening  a  priest  of  decided  opinions  was  discuss- 
ing with  him  the  question  of  tenant  rights,  and 
began  to  interrogate  Father  Healy  who,  with  the 
gravest  face,  made  ridiculous  answers. 

Finally  the  priest  said,  impatiently,  "  What  are 
your  politics  ? " 

"  I  am  of  my  Bishop's  politics,"  gently  an- 
swered Father  Healy,  puffing  away  at  his  cigar. 

"  And  what  are  your  Bishop's  politics?  " 


144  .          HERSELF— IRELAND 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Father  Healy,  more 
gently  still;  "  I  have  never  asked  him." 

Another  time  Dean  Quirke,  a  fine  old  bluff 
priest,  and  a  very  advanced  politician,  called  to 
see  Father  Healy. 

"How  goes  the  Landleague,  Dean?"  Father 
Healy  asked.  . 

"Latterly  I  leave  politics  to  my  curate,"  dis- 
creetly replied  the  Dean. 

"  Quite  right,  Dean,  it  would  never  do  for  you 
or  me  at  our  time  of  life,  and  in  this  moist  climate, 
to  stay  for  hours  on  the  bank  of  a  ditch  with  a  gun 
in  hand  watching  for  a  landlord." 

Father  Healy's  friend,  Charles  Meehan,  a  won- 
derful scholar  and  a  very  gifted  writer,  possessed 
a  sardonic  wit,  which  was  quite  different  from 
Father  Healy's  sunny-tempered  sallies.  They 
made  a  trip  together  in  France.  Father  Meehan 
suffered  terribly  from  indigestion,  and  one  day 
without  any  farewell  suddenly  disappeared.  Next 
morning  Father  Healy  received  a  curt  note  ask- 
ing for  his  razor.  Father  Healy  answered,  "  Dear 
Meehan,  I  return  the  razor;  if  you  should  be 
disposed  to  commit  suicide,  I  advise  you  to  get 
it  ground  first."  It  was  years  before  Meehan 
forgave  the  razor  episode.  Finally  Father  Healy 
wrote,  "  Life  is  too  short  for  this  sort  of  thing,  let 
us  dismiss  such  folly,  come  and  dine  to-morrow." 
There  was  never  another  breach  in  their  friendship 


IRISH  WIT  145 

after  that.  An  auctioneer  when  dying,  left  Mee- 
han  a  small  legacy,  who  announced  it  exultingly  to 
Father  Healy. 

"  He  left  you  that  twenty  pounds  to  prevent 
you  from  cursing  his  memory,"  said  Father 
Healy. 

One  day  when  Father  Healy  called  on  Father 
Meehan,  the  pain  of  rheumatism  in  the  latter's 
feet  made  him  more  than  ordinarily  cutting  in  his 
remarks  on  all  his  friends. 

Finally,  Father  Healy  said,  "  Meehan,  I  am 
sorry  to  see  you  have  got  the  foot-and-mouth 
disease." 

Father  Healy  had  no  fear  of  Meehan  in  spite 
of  his  bitter  tongue.  Bishop  Moran,  a  school- 
fellow of  theirs,  had  been  living  in  New  Zealand. 
On  his  return  the  three  friends  met  and  were  dis- 
cussing a  former  student  of  Castleknock,  at  that 
time  an  excellent  priest.  Father  Meehan  said, 
"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  face  as  his?  Even  in 
Madame  Tussaud's  Chamber  of  Horrors  you  could 
not  find  one  of  worse  expression,  and  I  am  sure 
it  is  only  the  grace  of  God  that  has  kept  that  man 
from  crime."  The  Bishop  changed  the  conver- 
sation and  began  to  describe  his  life,  mentioning 
the  fact  that  the  natives  gave  great  honour  to 
reptiles,  and  the  more  venomous  they  were  the 
more  they  worshipped  them. 

"  That  is  the  diocese  for  you,  Meehan,"  smiled 


146  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Father  Healy ;  "  if  you  were  to  migrate  there  you 
would  be  hailed  as  a  Deity." 

It  was  said  after  this  pointed  rebuke  that 
Father  Meehan  became  milder  in  his  conver- 
sation. 

One  evening  Father  Healy  talking  to  him  about 
a  witty  priest  who  had  died,  said,  "  What  a  pity 
that  many  of  the  good  things  Kenyon  said  are 
not  preserved." 

Father  Meehan  said,  "  They  are  preserved,  by 
me." 

"  In  manuscript? " 

"  Yes,  in  manuscript." 

"  Then,"  said  Father  Healy,  "  my  name  must 
often  be  in  it." 

Father  Meehan  said  laconically,  "  Very  likely." 

Father  Healy  asked,  "  When  do  you  mean  to 
have  it  published?" 

"  Oh,  who  knows?  Perhaps  when  I  am  in 
Heaven,"  replied  Meehan. 

"  Then,"  said  Father  Healy,  "  if  readers  are  to 
wait  for  that,  you  may  write  about  me  whatever 
you  like." 

Meehan,  in  spite  of  indigestion,  and  a  very 
churlish  temper,  preserved  a  very  youthful  aspect. 
One  day  he  said  laughingly  to  Father  Healy, 
"  Time  has  writ  no  wrinkles  on  my  brow." 

"  Possibly,"  answered  Father  Healy,  "  but  he 
has  played  the  very  deuce  with  your  neck,"  point- 


IRISH  WIT  147 

ing  to  the  withered  skin  of  Father  Median's  thin 
throat. 

When  his  last  illness  came,  Father  Healy  asked 
him  if  he  had  seen  a  priest. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "Father  S.— a  good  fellow, 
but  a  great  ass." 

Father  Healy  asked  him  if  he  had  any  message 
for  the  Bishop. 

"  Yes ;  you  might  tell  him  I  am  dying,  and  he 
will  be  very  glad  to  hear  it.  I  am  quite  resigned," 
he  added,  "  and  have  made  my  will." 

Father  Healy  said  gaily,  "  Have  you  left  me 
anything? " 

"  The  deuce  a  farthing,"  Father  Meehan  an- 
swered vehemently,  and  then  he  began  to  mur- 
mur, "Jesus  have  mercy  upon  me,  Jesus  have 
mercy  upon  me,"  and  he  whispered  those  unfor- 
gettable lines  of  his  own  beautiful  translation  of 
the  last  words  of  Copernicus: 

"  Not  the  grace  Thou  gavest  Paul, 
Who  saw  Thy  Stephen  stoned ; 
Not  the  grace  that  Peter  won 
When  blinding  tears  his  crime  aton'd 
But,  ah,  dear  Saviour,  give  to  me 
The  grace  which  Thou  on  Calvary 
Didst  give  the  thief  who  at  Thy  side 
Repenting  hung,  repenting  died." 

Father  Healy  was  sincerely  grieved  at  the  death 
of  Father  Meehan,  and  brushed  a  tear  from  his 


148  HERSELF— IRELAND 

rough  cheek,  "which,"  he  afterwards  said,  "was 
the  only  thing  that  had  been  brushed  in  the  room 
for  years." 

One  day,  Father  Healy  was  calling  upon  a 
priest  in  the  country,  who  although  an  Irishman, 
had  no  sense  of  humour  and  was  quite  literal. 
As  they  were  going  over  his  farm  he  pointed  to  a 
heifer  and  said,  "  This  is  what  we  call  a  yearling, 
although  it  is  two  years  old." 

"That  is  a  bull,"  said  Father  Healy. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  the  priest,  "  the  bull  is  in  the 
paddock." 

A  hypochondriacal  priest  in  the  country,  stay- 
ing at  Bray,  was  walking  along  the  beach  with 
Father  Healy. 

"  I  have  really  got  relief  from  drinking  a  tum- 
bler of  salt  water  fresh  from  the  tide.  Do  you 
think  I  might  venture  to  take  a  second? "  he 
asked. 

Father  Healy  looked  at  the  long  rolling  waves, 
and  said,  "  Well,  I  don't  think  a  second  would  be 
missed." 

"  I  cannot  conceive  how  Jonah  could  have  lived 
in  the  stomach  of  a  whale,"  a  student  of  natural 
history  said  to  Father  Healy. 

"  Oh,  that  is  nothing,"  he  answered,  "  I  saw  Dr. 
Meldon  to-day,  coming  out  of  a  fly." 

A  Protestant  gentleman  once  said  to  him,  "  You 


IRISH  WIT  149 

know,  Father  Healy,  our  church  is  founded  on  a 
rock." 

"  Yes,"  said  Father  Healy  quickly,  "  a  blasted 
rock." 

Father  Healy,  like  all  wits,  had  a  horror  of 
monologue,  which  alas  is  one  of  the  popular  recre- 
ations of  my  country.  A  brilliant  Englishman  who 
travelled  in  America,  said  to  me,  "  Do  you  know 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  conversation  in  your 
country;  they  indulge  instead  in  a  series  of  mono- 
logues. One  man  takes  the  floor  and  talks  for 
ten  minutes;  he  then  yields  it  to  another,  and 
so  they  proceed;  but  there  is  no  give  and  take 
as  we  have  it  in  England."  And  I  am  obliged  to 
acknowledge  that  this  accusation  against  us  is  more 
or  less  true.  Long-windedness  is  certainly  a  char- 
acteristic of  my  country,  and  bores  are  to  be  found 
galore.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  democ- 
racy must  produce  bores.  We  are  all  free  and 
equal,  the  people  in  America  are  mostly  polite, 
kind-hearted,  and  endowed  with  fortitude;  so  we 
have  formed  a  habit  of  listening  to  bores  with 
exceeding  patience,  whereas  in  England  they 
would  be  ruthlessly  squelched. 

I  remember  years  ago  in  London  being  on 
the  point  of  leaving  a  large  gathering,  when  I  was 
stopped  by  an  eminent  American  statesman,  who 
began  our  conversation  with  an  anecdote  of  1863, 
and  ambled  through  the  intervening  years  until 


150  HERSELF— IRELAND 

we  arrived  at  1905.  When  I  reached  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs,  where  a  member  of  my  family  had 
been  waiting  since  1863,  I  never  saw  a  man  in 
a  more  towering  rage.  Human  nature  is  alike  all 
over  the  world,  and  there  are  in  Ireland  monolo- 
gists  as  well  as  in  America. 

I  went  away  once  with  a  very  dear  Irish 
friend,  and  she  talked  to  me  for  a  week.  Being 
her  guest,  I  felt  obliged  to  listen.  We  had  charm- 
ing apartments  at  the  Beacon  Hotel,  Hind  Head, 
a  sitting-room  and  two  bedrooms.  At  nine  o'clock 
in  the  morning  over  our  coffee  she  began  and 
talked  until  twelve,  then  I  had  my  bath  and 
dressed  myself  for  lunch.  After  a  short  walk, 
when  she  talked  again,  we  lunched.  We  after- 
wards had  a  drive,  and  she  talked  until  tea.  She 
talked  all  through  tea,  and  then  until  we  dressed 
for  dinner.  When  that  meal  was  finished,  she 
began  quite  fresh  and  talked  uninterruptedly  until 
eleven  o'clock.  On  the  seventh  day  I  collapsed. 
The  doctor  had  to  be  sent  for,  and  he  said  I  was 
suffering  from  symptoms  of  congestion  of  the 
brain;  ordered  mustard  for  the  soles  of  my  feet, 
the  back  of  my  neck,  and  perfect  quiet  for  days 
to  come.  And  I  will  never  forget  the  blessed 
solitude  and  peace  that  followed.  I  can  talk  my- 
self, and  like  to  talk,  and  like  to  hear  other  peo- 
ple talk,  but  I  must  have  spaces  of  silence;  my 
powers  of  endurance  are  not  limitless. 


IRISH  WIT  151 

Canon  Pope  was  a  talker  of  great  endurance. 
At  one  of  Father  Healy's  famous  dinners,  when 
flashes  of  wit  had  been  playing  across  the  table 
there  was  a  pause,  and  Canon  Pope  said: 

"  Language  is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
studies;  it  may  be  arranged  in  distinguishing 
classes  of  families,  and  the  relationship  existing 
between  the  members  is  obvious,"  and  thus  he 
ambled  on  for  five  minutes.  .  .  .  "  Thus  the 
Indian  Gothic  family  sends  forth  its  dialectic 
children  in  the  Armenian,  Zend,  Lithuanian, 
Sclavonian,  Teuton,  Sanscrit,  and  Celtic.  Pri- 
mary dialects  are  divided  into  respective  dialects. 
The  brogue  of  Tipperary  is  an  incipient  dialect, 
where  by  lengthening  the  vowels : 

"Oh,  Canon!"  said  Father  Healy,  who  had 
been  watching  for  an  opportunity  to  interrupt  this 
ponderous  monologue;  "Tipperary  is  hardly  the 
place  to  lengthen  your  vowels,  for  there  they  think 
nothing  of  knocking  your  two  eyes  into  one." 

Mrs.  Bischoffsheim  asked  him  his  opinion  of 
Lord  X. 

"  A  charming  fellow,"  said  Father  Healy, 
"  with  plenty  of  the  small  change  of  social  con- 
versation, but  I  never  yet  found  a  sovereign  or 
five-pound  note  on  the  platter." 

What  an  exact  impression  this  gives  one  of  con- 
ventional amiability. 

But  even  Father  Healy's  wit  alone,  constant 


152  HERSELF— IRELAND 

bubbling  fountain  that  it  was,  could  not  have 
given  him,  a  humble  parish  priest  with  an  income 
of  not  more  than  two  hundred  pounds  a  year,  the 
great  social  position  in  the  world  that  he  had, 
without  a  wonderful  personality  to  aid  him.  He 
never  said  unkind  things  of  anybody,  and  even  his 
criticisms  were  amusing  and  gentle.  He  was  a 
man  of  sturdy  independence,  not  ashamed  to  enter- 
tain the  highest  in  the  land — like  the  true  gen- 
tleman he  was — in  the  simplest  fashion  possible. 
Royalty,  Dukes,  Viceroys,  litterateurs,  poets, 
musicians,  writers,  all  were  only  too  pleased  to 
dine  with  him;  and  the  dinner  was  both  cooked 
and  served  by  his  general  servant.  He  gave  his 
guests  soup,  roast,  vegetables,  a  plain  pudding,  or 
dessert.  His  many  friends  with  splendid  houses 
often  sent  him  grapes,  melons,  and  peaches,  or 
a  few  dozen  bottles  of  wine.  He  need  not  have 
entertained  at  all,  for  he  was  a  welcome  and 
sought  for  guest  by  the  greatest  in  the  land;  but 
he  loved  having  people  under  his  own  roof.  His 
beautiful,  simple,  sincere,  sweet,  and  tender  na- 
ture made  him  loved  of  all  the  world — Catholic 
and  Protestant,  aristocrat  and  peasant,  rich  and 
poor,  English  and  Irish,  all  deplored  Father 
Healy's  death,  which  he  met  in  characteristic 
fashion,  whispering  gaily  to  his  sister,  "  Notice  to 
quit! " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  IRISH  TEMPERAMENT 

Better  Strife  than  Loneliness 

(Irish  Proverb) 

AFTER  ten  years  of  homeless  wandering  and  con- 
stant loneliness,  I  can  shake  hands  with  this 
proverb.  For  Strife  passes.  But  Loneliness 
abides.  My  most  forlorn  moments  are  when,  be- 
fore unpacking,  I  enter  a  hotel  bedroom.  Why 
must  these  temporary  abodes  be  rendered  so 
detached,  inhospitable,  and  lifeless?  Why  must 
hotels  be  so  hopelessly  ugly?  With  not  even  the 
smallest  suggestion  of  that  permanent  habitation, 
Home.  If  ever  this  mortal  coil  proves  too  much 
for  me,  and  I  shuffle  off,  for  my  fell  purpose  I 
will  select  a  large  hotel. 

The  truth  is  that  women,  and  above  all  women 
who  are  home-makers,  should  furnish  hotels.  Men 
look  upon  hotel-keeping  as  a  business,  a  profit  not 
a  loss  at  the  end  of  the  year,  no  matter  how  the 
profit  is  obtained.  I  once  stayed  in  a  hotel  in 
Harrogate  which  had  been  furnished  by  a  lady. 
The  carpet  on  the  floor  was  a  quiet  green,  the 
wall-paper  a  plain  cream,  there  were  flowered 
chintz  curtains  lined  with  green  to  darken  the 

153 


154  HERSELF— IRELAND 

windows,  a  pleasing  engraving  over  the  chimney- 
piece,  a  wardrobe  with  a  sufficiency  of  hooks,  a 
good-looking  chest  of  drawers  and  dressing-table, 
a  washstand  with  flowered  china,  a  green  screen, 
and,  oh,  wonder  of  wonders,  a  writing-table  with 
paper,  pens,  a  blotter,  and  a  useful  bottle  of  ink. 
I  would  like  to  furnish  a  hotel.  Every  room 
should  supply  the  reasonable  wants  of  the  occu- 
pant, and  a  well-designed  frame  should  contain 
these  words: 

"  Welcome,  Friend.  Make  yourself  at  home. 
Try  not  to  be  sick  or  sorry  in  this  hotel.  We  wish 
your  stay  to  be  a  pleasant  one.  Because  you  are 
under  our  roof  you  have  claims  upon  us.  Lone- 
some questions  answered  by  our  Home  Advisor." 
—Who  should  be  young,  pretty,  and  optimistic. 

Yes,  certainly,  when  I  consider  life  in  all  its 
aspects,  hotels  and  otherwise,  Strife  is  a  thousand 
times  better  than  Loneliness. 

It  is  the  successful  combination  of  spiritual  and 
human  attributes  that  accounts  for  the  fascina- 
tion of  the  Irish  character.  Spirituality  in  an 
Irishman  does  not  destroy  his  own  humanity,  or 
the  understanding  of  it  in  other  people.  He  may 
condemn  shortcomings  in  his  friends,  but  at  the 
same  time  he  forgives  them.  And  the  Irish  are 
forgiving  to  each  other.  In  Texas  if  two  men 
indulge  in  an  insulting  quarrel  it  means  war  to 
the  knife,  and  the  death  of  one  or  both  of  them. 


THE  IRISH  TEMPERAMENT     155 

In  England  if  two  men  quarrel  with  bitterness, 
it  means  a  life-long  estrangement.  In  Ireland 
if  the  belligerents  quarrel  on  Monday,  it  means 
they  dine  together  on  Friday.  •  And  who  shall 
say  they  are  not  the  wisest,  the  most  philosophical 
and  civilised  of  the  three?  There  is  everything 
in  the  day,  the  mood,  the  hour.  Fever  riots  in 
the  blood  on  Monday,  it  boils  and  rushes  to  the 
brain,  inflaming  view  and  vision.  On  Friday  the 
temperature  has  lowered,  the  pulse  is  quiet,  the 
brain  normal,  and  the  point  of  view  calm  and 
friendly.  And  Irishmen,  no  matter  how  out- 
rageously they  quarrel,  can  afford  to  mend  it,  for 
their  most  prejudiced  enemies  have  never  yet 
called  them  cowards.  Foes  do  not  become  friends 
to  avoid  a  fight;  a  subtle  understanding,  deeper 
and  more  moving  than  an  avalanche  of  words 
binds  them  together.  Forgiveness  and  Hope  bear 
their  noble  and  yet  human  part  in  Ireland.  Hell 
is  not  so  much  considered  as  purgatory.  In  spite 
of  being  mischievous  sprites,  turning  the  milk 
sour,  weaving  spells,  and,  if  crossed,  being  ex- 
cessively spiteful,  there  is  hope  even  for  the  fairies, 
and  they  are  affectionately  called  "  the  Good 
People."  They  were  once  angels  who,  expelled 
from  Heaven,  have  not  fallen  further  into  Hell 
than  this  unsatisfactory  world.  They  still  have 
a  sense  of  right  and  of  justice,  and  befriend  peo- 
ple who  are  kind  and  generous,  but  punish  those 


156  HERSELF— IRELAND 

who  are  mean,  miserly,  and  without  consideration 
for  the  fairies.  To  cut  down  a  thorn  tree  always 
brings  disaster. 

"  Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather ! 

"  By  the  craggy  hillside 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
If  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  them  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  their  sharpest  thorns 

In  his  bed  at  night." 

They  are  most  worldly  wise,  the  little  people;  it 
was  a  fairy  prince  who  gave  a  peasant  these  words 
of  wisdom :  "  What  you  don't  spend  yourself, 
your  enemies  will  spend  for  you."  They  speak 
the  most  beautiful  Gaelic,  and  sing  the  sweetest 
songs,  accompanied  by  silver  flutes  and  trumpets, 
and  they  love  dancing  and  laughter.  On  the  fifth 
day  of  the  week,  which  is  Friday,  they  are  free 
to  do  mortals  any  harm  in  their  power,  therefore 
this  day  is  unlucky  for  weddings,  or  journeys,  or 


THE  IRISH  TEMPERAMENT     157 

even  funerals.  The  Good  People  cannot  avoid 
being  changeable  and  capricious,  the  fear  and 
doubt  of  finding  forgiveness  and  mercy  on  Judg- 
ment Day  makes  them  reckless  and  malicious.  On 
the  other  hand,  remembrance  of  their  original 
blessed  condition  often  influences  them  to  benefi- 
cent and  helpful  actions  towards  man. 

We  are  ourselves  singularly  like  the  fairies.  A 
combination  of  good  and  evil,  with  a  pitiful  un- 
certainty of  our  fate  on  the  final  great  day.  We 
hope  for  mercy,  but  we  have  an  active  enemy  in 
the  devil,  against  us. — What  splendid  scope  the 
War  has  given  him! 

The  devil  is  not  ignored  in  Ireland.  He  is  con- 
stantly spoken  of,  and  recognised  as  a  foe  to  be 
outgeneraled,  and  even  propitiated.  He  is  not 
like  the  old-fashioned  frying-pan,  Cromwellian 
devil  of  Protestant  countries,  ever  possessed  by  a 
desire  to  broil  and  baste.  His  pursuits  are  more 
diverse,  and  he  has  a  sense  of  humour  which 
enables  him  to  grin  when  a  quick-witted  sinner 
eludes  him.  Purgatory,  not  being  fatal,  is  his 
worst  stumbling-block. 

The  tram  was  striking  sparks  from  its  red-hot 
tires  on  the  main  line  to  hell,  when  it  pulled  up 
at  the  last  station,  and  the  porters  called  out, 
"  Catholics,  change  here  for  Purgatory!  Prot- 
estants, keep  your  seats  " 

Good  Catholics  regard  the  devil  with  a  kind  of 


158  HERSELF— IRELAND 

pity  on  account  of  his  many  failures.  He  works 
so  hard,  so  resourcefully,  so  intelligently,  his  suc- 
cess seems  so  sure,  and  then — defeat. 

Doctor  Darner,  who  lived  near  Tipperary,  sold 
his  soul  for  a  boot — a  top-boot  reaching  above  his 
knee — to  be  filled  with  gold.  On  the  day  ap- 
pointed, the  devil  arrived  with  a  bag  of  sovereigns. 
Meanwhile,  the  doctor  had  cut  away  the  heel  from 
the  boot,  nailed  it  to  the  floor,  and  made  an  open- 
ing through  the  ceiling  to  the  room  below.  The 
devil  emptied  the  bag,  and  still  the  boot  remained 
unfilled. 

"  Confound  it  all,"  he  said,  telephoning  to  hell; 
"  send  up  imps  with  more  gold." 

Only  at  the  end  of  a  hard  day's  work  was  the 
boot  full  of  coins,  and  Doctor  Darner  the  richest 
man  in  the  County.  When  he  grew  old,  with  ad- 
mirable foresight,  he  gave  his  ill-gotten  gains  to 
the  sick  and  the  poor.  It  was  quite  by  accident 
that  the  devil  heard  of  his  last  illness.  He  at  once 
called  for  the  ratification  of  their  bargain,  but 
the  doctor  had  departed  the  day  before  to  work 
out  his  salvation  in  Purgatory,  duping  the  devil 
for  the  second  time.  The  "  old  boy  "  must  be 
quick-witted  to  gain  an  advantage  over  his  Irish 
antagonists. 

Poor  devil,  it  is  only  in  Ireland  that  he  ever 
has  a  word  of  approval.  In  Trinity  College  his 
signature  is  shown  with  fearlessness  and  pride. 


THE  IRISH  TEMPERAMENT     159 

A  great  magician  having  invoked  the  devil  to  find 
out  the  whereabouts  of  concealed  treasure,  found 
his  pen  and  paper  suspended  in  mid-air,  and 
concealed  by  a  black  and  fiery  cloud,  an  invisible 
hand  wrote  in  Syrian  characters  and  signed  him- 
self, E.  Quid.  In  the  Syrian  language  it  may  be 
a  portentous  signature,  but  in  the  cold  light  of  day, 
in  a  glass  case,  it  suggests  a  facetious  and  most 
light-hearted  devil. 

A  man,  his  ass  and  cart,  were  on  a  bridge  with 
a  swollen,  hungry  river  rushing  madly  beneath  it. 
The  rotten  timbers  creaked  ominously.  The  man 
crossed  himself  and  said,  "  God  is  good.  God 
is  good."  The  creaking  grew  louder.  "  But," 
he  added,  "the  divil  isn't  bad — the  divil  isn't 
bad." 

A  small  farmer  was  showing  an  Englishman 
the  nearby  country.  "  On  the  top  of  that  pla- 
teau," he  said,  "  is  the  *  Devil's  bed,'  underneath 
it  is  '  Devil's  punchbowl,'  and  on  the  other  side  is 
the  <  Devil's  glen.'  " 

"  The  devil  seems  to  own  a  lot  of  places  in 
Ireland,"  said  the  Englishman. 

"  Yes,  Sir,  he  does,"  said  the  Irishman, 
"  but  he  is  an  absentee  landlord.  He  lives  in 
England." 

"  Great  noise  and  little  wool,"  said  the  devil 
with  pointed  sarcasm  when  shearing  a  pig,  and 
being  deafened  by  the  squeals. 


160  HERSELF— IRELAND 

George  Bernard  Shaw  in  Man  and  Super- 
man makes  the  devil  encouragingly  polite  to  his 
guests  in  hell. 

The  Statue.  "  This  is  metaphysics  Juan,  why 
the  devil  should — (to  the  devil)  I  beg  your 
pardon." 

The  Devil.  "  Pray  don't  mention  it.  I  have 
always  regarded  the  use  of  my  name  to  secure  ad- 
ditional emphasis  as  a  high  compliment  to  me.  It 
is  quite  at  your  service,  commander." 

There  are  occasions  when  to  say  a  man  or  ani- 
mal will  fight  like  the  devil  is  high  praise.  Dr. 
Hyde  makes  the  gossoon  laud  the  pig  by  calling 
him  "  a  divil." 

It  is  said  that  the  Irish  will  not  say  yes  or  no. 
Not  because  they  cannot  say  yes  or  no,  but  be- 
cause they  are  perfect  adepts  in  evasion.  It  whets 
their  quick  wits,  and  gives  their  tongues  a  neat 
chance  of  thrust  and  parry.  I  do  not  know  a 
better  example  than  "  The  Minister  and  the 
Gossoon,"  in  Dr.  Hyde's  Religious  Songs  of 
Connaught. 

"  One  day  there  was  a  poor  little  gossoon  on  the 
side  of  the  road,  who  was  taking  care  of  an  old 
sow  of  a  pig  and  a  litter  of  bonhams  along  with 
her. 

"  A  minister  came  the  way,  and  he  riding  upon  a 
fine  white  horse,  and  he  said  to  the  gossoon, 
'.Where  does  this  road  bring  you? ' ' 


Miss  KITTY  GUNNING 


THE  IRISH  TEMPERAMENT     161 

Gossoon.  "  I  am  here  a  fortnight,  and  it  never 
brought  me  anywhere  yet." 

Minister.  "  Now  isn't  it  the  wise  little  boy  you 
are.  Whose  are  those  little  pigs? " 

Gossoon.     "  They  are  the  old  sow's." 

Minister.  "  I  know  that,  but  I  am  asking  you 
who  is  the  master  of  the  bonhams? " 

Gossoon.  "  That  little  black  and  white  divil 
that  you  see  rooting.  He  is  able  to  beat  the  whole 
of  them." 

Minister.  "  That  is  not  what  I  am  asking  you 
at  all.  But  who  is  your  own  master?  " 

Gossoon.  "  My  mistress's  husband,  a  man  as 
good  as  you'd  get  from  here  to  himself." 

Minister.  "  You  don't  understand  me  yet. 
Who  is  your  mistress?  Perhaps  you  understand 
that." 

Gossoon.  "  I  understand  you  well.  She's  my 
master's  wife.  Everybody  know's  that." 

Minister.  "  You  are  a  wise  little  boy ;  and  it  is 
good  for  me  to  let  you  be,  but  tell  me  do  you  know 
where  Patrick  O'Donnell  is  living? " 

Gossoon.  "  Yes,  indeed.  Follow  this  road 
until  you  come  to  a  boreen  on  the  side  of  your 
thumb-hand.  Then  follow  your  nose,  and  if  you 
go  astray  break  the  guide." 

Minister.  "  Indeed  and  you're  a  ripe  little  lad. 
What  trade  will  you  be  when  you'll  be  older? " 

Gossoon.     "  Herding  a  pig.    Don't  you  see  that 


162  HERSELF— IRELAND 

I  am  putting  in  my  term.     What  is  your  own 
trade?" 

Minister.  "  A  good  trade.  I  am  showing 
people  what  is  the  way  to  Heaven." 

Gossoon.  "Oh,  what  a  liar;  you  cannot  show 
the  way  to  any  place.  You  don't  know  the  way  to 
Patrick  O'Donnell's,  a  man  that  everybody — big 
and  little — in  this  country  knows,  and  I'm  certain 
sure  that  you  have  no  knowledge  of  the  road  to 
Heaven." 

Minister.  "  I  am  beaten.  Here's  half-a-crown 
for  your  cleverness.  When  I  come  again  you'll 
get  another." 

Gossoon.  *'  Thank  you;  it's  a  pity  that  a  fool 
like  you  doesn't  come  this  way  every  day." 

This  is  a  very  consistent  little  study  of  Irish 
character.  The  minister  never  loses  his  temper, 
and  is  so  amused  with  the  boy's  slipperiness  and 
quickness  that  he  gives  him  a  piece  of  money. 
And  even  that  fails  to  soften  the  lad's  heart;  he 
is  saucy  and  sparkling  to  the  last.  The  gift  of 
speech  is  a  most  natural  and  not  at  all  surprising 
thing  in  Ireland.  A  solicitor  told  me  of  a  deed 
he  had  drawn  up  for  an  old  peasant,  who  gave 
the  farm  to  his  son  on  his  marriage.  "  Now  put 
down  as  I  say  it,  these  words  of  mine,"  said  he. 
"  I  am  to  live  with  my  son  until  my  death,  I  am 
to  have  free  use  of  the  fire  without  molestation. 
I  am  to  sleep  in  the  four-post  bed  alone."  How 


THE  IRISH  TEMPERAMENT     163 

much  is  crowded  into  these  few  words,  "  free 
use  of  the  fire  without  molestation."  It  means 
that  none  of  the  family  are  at  liberty  to 
say,  "  Grandfather,  please  move  and  let  me  get 
near  the  fire."  He  has  provided  against  any 
such  contingency;  and  no  matter  how  many  babies 
come,  or  how  crowded  the  cottage  may  be, 
Grandpa  will  sleep  comfortably  alone  in  the  four- 
post  bed.  Not  the  most  brilliant  lawyer  could  put 
more  succinctly  exactly  what  is  meant  than  this 
Irish  peasant.  All  kinds  and  sorts  of  people 
talk  well.  Literary  people  of  course,  it  is  expected 
of  them — although  a  famous  authoress  sat  next 
Mark  Twain  at  a  dinner-party,  and  never  uttered 
a  syllable.  At  the  end  of  the  evening  he  turned 
and  said  to  her,  "  Why  so  boisterous,  my  child? " 
And  the  people  who  are  not  literary,  people  of 
leisure,  and  people  who  work,  poets,  priests,  or 
peasants  can  express  themselves  in  the  most  pic- 
turesque language. 

A  humble  mother,  at  her  son's  wake,  called 
out,  "  Oh,  women,  look  on  me !  Look  on  me, 
women.  Have  you  ever  seen  the  like  of  me  in 
my  sorrow?  Arrah,  then  my  son,  my  son,  'tis 
your  mother  that  calls  you.  How  long  are  you 
sleeping?  Do  you  see  the  people  around  you,  my 
darling,  and  I  sorely  weeping?  Arrah,  what  is 
this  paleness  on  your  face?  Sure,  there  was  no 
equal  to  it  in  Erin  for  beauty  and  fairness.  Your 


164  HERSELF— IRELAND 

hair  was  heavy  as  the  wing  of  a  raven,  and  your 
skin  was  whiter  than  the  hand  of  a  lady.  It  is  the 
stranger  must  carry  me  to  the  grave,  and  my  son 
lying  here."  No  queen  could  have  lamented  her 
son  with  more  dignity.  All  emotions  are  tran- 
scribed into  words.  The  Irish  minstrel  improvises 
beautiful  songs.  The  Irish  enemy  improvises 
amazing  curses.  Strangely  enough  curses  seem  to 
be  indigenous  to  the  soil,  but  how  grotesque  an 
Upper  Tooting  curse  would  be,  or  a  Virginia 
Water  curse,  or  even  for  the  matter  of  that,  a 
Washington,  D.C.  curse.  On  the  other  hand,  a 
Wexford  curse  is  natural  and  not  the  least  gro- 
tesque, and  a  very  nice,  compact,  comprehensive 
curse  it  is: 

"  May  the  grass  grow  at  your  door  and  the  fox 
build  his  nest  on  your  hearthstone.  May  the 
light  fade  from  your  eyes,  so  that  you  never  see 
what  you  love.  May  your  own  blood  rise  against 
you,  and  the  sweetest  drink  you  take  be  the  bit- 
terest cup  of  sorrow.  May  you  die  without  benefit 
of  clergy;  may  there  be  none  to  shed  a  tear  at 
your  grave,  and  may  the  hearthstone  of  hell  be 
your  best  bed  for  ever." 

It  is  a  little  difficult  to  curse  three  enemies  at 
once,  but  in  this  instance  of  Bruader,  Smith,  and 
Glinn  it  has  been  admirably  done.  The  original 
is  a  very  long  curse,  but  these  verses  serve  to  show 
the  style  of  malediction: 


THE  IRISH  TEMPERAMENT     165 

"  Bruader  and  Smith  and  Glinn 

Amen,  dear  God  I  pray, 
May  they  lie  low  in  waves  of  woe. 
And  tortures  slow  each  day ! 

Amen! 

"  Glinn  in  a  shaking  ague, 

Cancer  on  Bruader's  tongue, 
Amen,  O  King  of  the  Heavens !  and  Smith 
For  ever  stricken  dumb. 

Amen! 

"  Bruader  with  nerveless  limbs, 

Hemp  strangling  Glinn's  last  breath, 
Amen,  O  King  of  the  World's  Light 
And  Smith  in  grips  with  death. 

Amen!" 

Rafferty's  curse,  if  it  took  effect,  would  be  most 
unpleasant,  there  are  such  a  variety  of  diseases 
embodied  in  it,  while  poisoned  dragons'  gall 
sounds  indeed  a  bitter  potion. 

"  The  feet  may  you  lose  from  the  knees  down, 
The  sight  of  the  eyes,  and  the  movements  of  the  hands, 
The  leprosy  of  Job  may  it  come  down  upon  you. 
Farcy,  erysipelas,  and  king's  evil  in  the  neck. 

"  A  chest-boil,  and  a  cold  felon  on  you 
A  wheezing,  a  smothering,  and  a  seile  siadhain, 
Dragons'  gall  and  poison  mixed  through  it, 
May  that  be  your  sleeping  draught  at  the  hour  of  your 
death." 


166  HERSELF— IRELAND 

I  thought,  until  I  knew  more  about  curses,  that 
even  the  curser  could  never  take  back  his  impreca- 
tion, that  once  hurled  forth  it  was  out  of  his  keep- 
ing for  ever;  but  there  have  been  instances  when 
they  have  been  called  back,  and  sent  forth  again 
as  blessings.  And  because  of  this  fluency  with 
words  that  is  perhaps  why  there  is  not  a  finer 
Irish  literature.  In  speech  beautiful  thoughts  and 
sparkling  witticisms  are  lost  and  forgotten.  It  is 
far  easier  for  me  to  express  myself  in  words  than 
by  pen.  I  must  read  aloud  all  that  I  write,  as  my 
ear  and  tongue  are  both  quicker  and  more  dis- 
cerning than  my  eye,  conversation  is  far  more 
stimulating  to  my  creative  faculties  than  quiet 
meditation,  and  I  can  perfectly  understand  the 
disinclination  people  who  talk  have  to  writing. 
The  very  best  talker  I  have  ever  heard  is  an 
Irishman,  George  Russell,  "  A.E."  The  well-be- 
loved, and  the  deservedly  well-beloved,  of  Ireland. 
He  has  half-a-dozen  ways  of  expressing  himself, 
being  a  poet,  a  man  of  letters,  a  painter,  a  lecturer 
— and  the  two  things — to  talk  and  to  lecture — 
do  not  necessarily  go  together.  An  agreeable 
talker  cannot  always  stand  on  his  legs  and  speak 
to  an  audience,  but  Mr.  Russell  can  do  both — and 
his  conversation  has  every  grace.  He  illumines  his 
subjects  without  pedantry.  He  is  instructive,  and 
at  the  same  time  amusing  and  witty.  He  has  a 
wonderful  memory,  and  is  master  of  a  wide  range 


THE  IRISH  TEMPERAMENT     167 

of  subjects;  his  facts, — for  he  is  that  unusual  com- 
bination, a  practical  poet, — are  well  marshalled 
together.  He  can  express  himself  in  a  voice  of 
many  and  varied  tones,  even  the  most  insincere 
listener  would  realise  his  sincerity,  and  can  there 
be  a  more  rare  sensation  than  to  feel  that  a  scin- 
tillatingly  brilliant  conversationalist  is  sincere? 
I  have  very  often  enjoyed  and  laughed  at  Oscar 
Wilde's  paradoxes,  and  listened  to  him  talk  with 
delight,  but  invariably  he  gave  me  the  impression 
of  a  charming  orator  expressing  other  opinions 
than  his  own. 

Occasionally  a  silent  Irishman  is  to  be  found. 
I  knew  an  Irish  doctor  living  in  London  who  was 
perfectly  inarticulate.  A  witty  confrere,  whose 
wife  he  attended,  said  of  him,  "  O'Grady  may 
know  what  is  the  matter  with  Herself,  but  he 
can't  tell  anybody." 

And  there  are  also  Irishmen  quite  devoid  of  any 
sense  of  humour.  But  these  are  exceptions,  for 
usually  not  only  do  the  Irish  possess  humour  and 
a  ready  tongue,  but  they  possess  a  ready  and 
reckless  courage  where  chance  is  concerned.  The 
Irish  in  America  are  rich,  and  they  are  poor. 
They  take  a  chance,  and  Fortune  smiles,  or  she 
frowns  and  runs  away,  but  they  do  not  grumble 
at  her  humours.  The  Scandinavians,  on  the 
other  hand,  take  no  chances,  they  work  hard,  make 
a  competence,  and  are  satisfied.  What  would  the 


168  HERSELF— IRELAND 

world  be  without  the  hair-breadth  escapes  of  the 
Irish?  A  chance  gives  them  the  millionth  part  of 
an  inch,  they  take  it,  and  the  goddess,  shaking 
her  sides  with  laughter,  claps  her  hands  to  applaud 
as  she  sees  them  scramble  to  a  breathless  success. 

A  wild  Irishman  from  Australia  was  in  Paris 
during  the  visit  of  the  Tzar  and  Tzarina  when 
the  whole  city  was  mad  with  gaiety  and  excite- 
ment. Every  house  was  decorated  with  flowers 
and  flags,  even  the  trees  bloomed  and  blossomed 
in  paper  roses,  and  very  pretty  if  somewhat  sur- 
prising they  looked  peeping  forth  from  the  green 
leaves.  Joy  and  festivity  was  in  the  blood,  bands 
played,  soldiers  marched,  and  Pat  O'Flynn  said, 
"  I  shall  go  to  the  ball  with  the  Tzar." 

"  I'll  bet  you  a  hundred  pounds  you  don't,"  said 
the  English  friend  to  whom  he  made  the  remark. 

"Done,"  said  O'Flynn;  "I'll  go;  notify  your 
banker  that  your  account  may  not  be  overdrawn," 
and  my  friend  O'Flynn  began  his  machinations. 
He  went  to  a  costumer  and  hired  a  magnificent  uni- 
form of  pale-blue  cloth,  braided  in  gold  and  silver, 
epaulets  rich  with  bullion,  a  scarlet  sash,  and  a 
glittering  metal  helmet.  He  then  made  in  differ- 
ent pawnshops  selections  of  orders — Turkish, 
Polish,  Italian,  Russian,  Spanish,  Portuguese — 
he  was  prodigal  as  to  nationality  and  catholic  in 
his  taste — and  these  he  pinned  over  the  left  breast 
of  his  uniform,  until  they  overlapped  like  the 


THE  IRISH  TEMPERAMENT     169 

scales  of  a  shining  fish.  The  small  interstices  were 
filled  with  little  street  medals,  heads  of  the  Tzar 
and  Tzarina,  and  the  President  of  the  Republic. 
The  night  of  the  ball  he  covered  himself  with  a 
blue  cloak  lined  with  scarlet  satin,  and  waited  on 
the  outside  of  the  crowd  until  the  Tzar  and 
Tzarina  and  their  suite  passed  up  the  steps  to 
enter  the  palace.  Just  as  they  disappeared  he 
threw  back  his  long  cloak  and  said  to  the  excited 
police,  "  Je  suis  en  retard,  mon  Dieu!  je  suis  en 
retard!  le  Tzar!  le  Tzar!!  Je  suis  General  Irish- 
ofsky,  General!  le  premier  Irishoffsky"  One 
emotional  Frenchman,  impressed  by  his  grandeur, 
shouted  out,  "  Vive  I'lrisJioffsky"  the  crowd  gave 
a  cheer  which  they  had  not  accorded  to  the 
Tzar,  and  he  entered  the  ballroom  in  a  blaze  of 
glory. 

His  friend,  the  Englishman,  standing  well  back 
in  the  crowd,  watched  the  brilliant  figure  disap- 
pear, and  said,  "Well,  I'm  damned.  He's  the 

h of  a  fellow,"  went  off  to  his  hotel, 

and  gamely  wrote  the  cheque  for  a  hundred 
pounds. 

Doctor  Patrick  Murphy,  when  in  the  medical 
service  in  India,  told  me  he  was  making  a  voyage 
from  Calcutta  to  Bombay.  On  the  boat  were  a 
number  of  Buddhist  priests;  they  belonged  to  a 
silent  order  and  were  all  very  devout.  But  even 
buried  in  their  habits  and  hoods,  he  thought  he  saw 


170  HERSELF— IRELAND 

in  a  lean  face,  burnt  a  fine  bronze,  the  intelligent 
gleam  of  a  dark-blue  eye.  And,  for  some  reason 
or  other,  it  seemed  to  him  a  familiar  Irish  eye.  At 
first  he  dismissed  the  idea  as  impossible,  but  as  he 
closely  regarded  the  broad-shouldered,  long- 
limbed  man  at  his  prayers,  and  saw  how  much 
more  manly  and  free  in  action  he  was  than  is 
usual  to  the  Indian,  he  decided  if  the  opportunity 
arose  to  speak  to  him.  When  the  boat  arrived  at 
Bombay,  the  priests,  not  hurrying  away,  were  the 
last  people  to  cross  the  gang-plank,  and  the  blue- 
eyed  one  lingered  well  in  the  rear. 

Taking  his  chance,  my  friend  said,  "  An'  will 
you  have  a  drop  of  the  craythur? " 

The  Buddhist  priest  raised  his  head  like  a  war- 
horse  who  hears  a  trumpet,  and,  speaking  in  a 
low  voice  with  a  rich  brogue  said,  "  Faith  an'  I 
will." 

"Then  follow  me  to  the  cabin,"  said  Doctor 
Murphy. 

After  a  generous  peg  of  whiskey,  the  doctor  had 
only  time  to  say,  "Where  do  you  come  from?" 

The  priest  said,  "The  West's  awake,  from 
Galway,"  he  then  hurried  up  the  steps  and  Doctor 
Murphy  saw  him  no  more. 

What  Arabian  Nights'  romance  could  be  more 
entertaining  than  the  adventures  of  that  West  of 
Ireland  broth  of  a  boy,  until  he  becomes  among 
many  other  things,  a  priest  of  Buddha.  Nothing 


THE  IRISH  TEMPERAMENT     171 

that  Kipling  ever  wrote  would  be  half  so  thrilling 
or  so  amusing  as  his  experiences.  The  true  and 
natural  soldier  of  fortune,  the  man  at  home  in 
every  country,  is  always  the  Irishman,  for  it  seems 
that  he  alone  can  get  into  the  skin  of  another 
nationality.  A  constant  reproach  to  the  Irish  is 
that  they  are  visionaries  and  dreamers.  And  if 
they  are — Joan  of  Arc  saved  France  through  a 
vision.  The  dreams  of  Napoleon  made  him  con- 
queror of  the  world.  I  know  the  best,  the  sweet- 
est, and  the  most  worthy  part  of  my  life  consists 
of  dreams  and  visions.  How  often  in  the  wakeful 
hours  of  the  night  have  I  endowed  that  home  for 
governesses,  where  they  can  have  breakfast  in  bed, 
tea  at  any  hour  of  the  afternoon,  and  stay  out  as 
long  as  they  like  at  night.  And  the  Judge  Paschal 
Law  School,  in  my  dear  Father's  name,  where 
men  could  become  lawyers  free  of  all  expense. 
And  the  bank  where  deserving  young  people  very 
much  in  love  could  borrow  money  when  they 
wanted  to  marry — I've  tried  to  work  out  a  system 
of  getting  it  back  again,  but  it  is  very  difficult. 
And  the  Temple  of  Cleanliness  where  the  dirtiest 
could  get  kindly  but  at  the  same  time  tonic  advice. 
And  the  Temple  of  Cleanliness  where  the  dirtiest 
and  the  poorest  would  never  be  refused  a  clean 
towel,  soap,  and  a  bath.  If  only  the  fairies  would 
tell  me  where  to  find  gold,  then  I  could  prove  to 
my  fellowman  my  love  for  him.  Now,  alas!  I  am 


172  HERSELF— IRELAND 

limited  to  tonic  advice,  and  it  has  not  the  weight 
it  would  have  if  given  in  the  House  of  Hope. 
But,  oh,  of  all  things  we  must  cherish  our  dreams 
and  our  visions,  for  I  am  sure  in  them  lies  forgive- 
ness for  our  omissions  and  our  sins. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  PERFORMING  ZOO 

I  HAVE  been  to  Zoological  Gardens  in  America, 
in  England,  in  Germany,  in  France,  in  Holland, 
in  Italy,  and  nowhere  in  the  world  have  I  found 
captive  creatures  so  "  domesticated  "  as  in  Dublin. 
Probably  it  comes  from  the  patience,  tenderness, 
understanding,  and  intimacy  of  the  keepers  with 
the  various  animals.  The  Irish  are,  except  where 
patriotism  is  concerned,  a  philosophical  race.  They 
expect  fierceness  from  wild  beasts,  and  only  seek 
preparedness  in  dealing  with  them. 

A  woman  sits  at  the  entrance  of  the  Zoo,  with 
all  the  various  grain  of  a  zoological  menu  ar- 
ranged on  her  stall.  I  bought  a  number  of  small 
differently  coloured  packets,  before  entering  the 
gate.  The  birds  recognised  them  from  afar,  and 
came  rapturously  along  the  path  towards  me. 
The  peacock  knew  his  own  particular  paper  at  a 
glance,  and  ate  out  of  my  hand  with  sharp  relish. 
The  ducks  on  the  pond  stopped  swimming  and 
came  with  smiling  beaks  and  wet-webbed  feet,  for 
the  grain  contained  in  their  familiar  little  red 
bags.  And  all  my  way  to  the  Lion  House,  I  was 
followed  by  a  motley  procession  of  the  feathered 

173 


174  HERSELF— IRELAND 

tribe.  Hearing  that  Flood,  the  keeper,  has  been 
more  successful  in  raising  lions  in  captivity  than 
any  other  student  of  natural  history  in  Europe, 
I  was  greatly  interested  to  make  his  acquaintance. 
He  is  a  good-looking,  strong  man  of  fifty  or  more, 
with  handsome  blue,  steady,  unwinking  eyes.  He 
says  himself  he  has  been  so  long  among  the  lions 
that  he  now  rather  resembles  them,  and  indeed  I 
noticed  a  little  soft  yellow  fur  beginning  to  make 
its  appearance  on  his  ears. 

There  were  six  or  eight  young  lions  to  be  seen, 
two  cubbies  a  fortnight  old,  four  cubs  of  four 
months  with  a  dog  in  their  cage  to  mind  and  tame 
them,  and  two  young  lioness  flappers,  just  begin- 
ning to  take  notice,  filled  with  female  curiosity  and 
restlessly  desirous  of  taking  a  promenade.  Hugh, 
a  fine  large  irritable  Irish  lion — for  he  was  born 
in  the  Zoo — refused  to  be  civil  even  to  Flood.  He 
roared  loudly  when  any  one  went  near  his  cage, 
and  if  a  man  stood  at  a  respectable  distance  look- 
ing at  him,  he  gave  ominous  rumbles.  Leo,  an- 
other lion  born  in  the  jungle,  of  much  more  ami- 
able disposition,  was  evidently  a  seeker  after  popu- 
larity, for  he  squatted  on  his  haunches,  pressed  his 
rough  mane  against  the  bars,  and  apparently 
enjoyed  having  his  head  scratched  by  people  of 
sporting  tendencies.  Flood  asked  politely  if  I  de- 
sired to  participate  in  this  unusual  amusement,  but 
I  refused,  fearing  that,  as  many  accidents  have 


A  PERFORMING  ZOO  175 

befallen  me,  my  hand  might  be  left  in  the  cage. 
And,  indeed,  I  did  not  feel  so  much  sympathy 
towards  Leo  as  towards  Hugh,  who  was  after  all, 
the  traditional  lion,  a  savage  captive.  There  were 
some  magnificent  tigers  in  their  cages,  splendid 
fellows  in  the  very  pink  of  condition.  One  of 
them,  by  the  commanding  and  persevering  Flood, 
had  been  taught  a  trick,  which  he  loathes  from  the 
very  bottom  of  his  tiger  soul,  but  which  for  some 
reason,  best  known  to  himself,  he  performs. 

In  the  corner  of  the  cage  lies  a  large  log  of 
wood.  Flood,  with  a  steady  voice,  says,  "  Straddle 
your  log!  "  The  tiger's  eyes  blaze  with  green 
fury,  he  snarls,  showing  all  his  dangerous  white 
fangs,  and  snorts  with  such  rage  that  his  whiskers 
fly  from  his  curling  lip.  Nevertheless,  with  drag- 
ging pauses,  he  sidles  up  to  the  faggot.  "  Go  on, 
Sir,  go  on!  "  says  Flood,  and  still  breathing  impre- 
cations against  his  tormentor,  and  cursing  with 
every  breath,  he  slowly  straddles  the  log.  "  Now, 
sit  down,"  says  Flood,  and  the  sleek  monster  cat, 
with  a  "  damn  you,  damn  you,  if  I  could  only  slit 
your  weazand,"  slowly  squats  upon  the  log,  dis- 
playing his  magnificent  white  chest,  which  heaves 
stupendously.  He  is  quiet  for  a  moment,  then, 
with  a  roar  of  pent-up  rage,  he  flings  himself  from 
his  seat,  sails  through  the  air,  and  grapples  the 
iron  bars  with  his  sharp  claws,  giving  them  a  good, 
rattling  shake.  And  I  was  very  glad,  indeed, 


176  HERSELF— IRELAND 

that  something  strong  stood  between  that  monarch 
of  the  jungle  and  his  audience. 

"  Do  you  know,"  I  said  to  Flood,  looking  at  a 
little  velvety  snub-nosed  female  lion  cub  and  her 
brother,  who  seemed  less  intelligent  but  more  man- 
ageable, "  I  have  a  theory  that  I  could  bring  up  a 
lion  on  bread  and  milk  and  moral  suasion,  and  he 
would  become  a  possible  member  of  society." 

"You  might  try  moral  suasion,  but  not  bread 
and  milk;  the  lion  is  a  carniverous  animal  and 
must  have  meat.  Theories  are  not  successful  when 
applied  to  beasts  of  the  jungle.  Kipling  has  done 
it  in  a  book,  and  made  them  all  talk;  but  a  lion, 
as  far  as  I  know  him," — I  looked  at  Flood's 
hands  covered  with  scars — he  knows  him — "  re- 
mains a  lion.  No  feline,  except  the  domestic  cat, 
is  ever  tame  while  there  is  life  in  it." 

"  Have  you  ever  known  an  amateur  to  try  and 
tame  a  lion? " 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Flood.  "There  was  once  a 
gentleman  who  had  even  a  greater  ambition  than 
yours,  Madam;  he  was  not  satisfied  to  bring  up 
one  lion  on  moral  suasion,  but  tried  two." 

"And  what  was  the  result?" 

"  Ah,"  said  Flood,  "  the  end  was  tragedy.  Do 
you  see  that  young  lioness  sitting  in  the  middle 
cage? " 

I  looked;  there  was  a  large,  fluffy,  blond  lion- 
ess, with  a  self-satisfied  kittenish  expression,  and 


A  PERFORMING  ZOO  177 

a  vixenish  smile,  regarding  us  attentively.  I  am 
certain  she  understood  every  word  of  the  conver- 
sation. All  female  creatures  understand  conver- 
sations that  are  a  tribute  to  their  vanity. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  see  the  young  lady  you  de- 
scribe. Is  she  the  heroine  of  the  story? " 

"  She  is,"  said  Flood.  "  This  gentleman  gave 
me  a  fair  price  for  her  and  a  good  male  cub.  He 
took  them  both  down  to  his  place — he  owned  many 
wild  acres  in  Connemara — and  there  he  brought 
the  two  of  them  up  on  affection  and  close  com- 
panionship. He  fairly  educated  those  lions,  and 
when  he  came  to  see  me  he  said  they  both  fol- 
lowed him  about  like  dogs,  licking  his  hands,  and 
showing  him  every  sign  of  affection.  He  had  a 
big  hall  with  a  stone  floor,  and  they  used  to  lie 
down  in  front  of  the  fireplace  on  winter  evenings; 
except  for  loud  purrs,  they  might  have  been  mis- 
taken for  monster  poodles.  When  the  male  lion, 
in  the  world  of  lions,  was  about  seventeen,  and  the 
lioness  the  same  age,  the  gentleman  made  a  visit 
to  Dublin  and,  as  always,  he  came  to  the  Zoo. 

"  c  Flood,'  he  said  to  me,  '  you  may  be,  and  are, 
a  specialist  in  raising  lion  cubs,  but  you  are  all 
wrong  about  their  training;  you  are  too  strict  a 
master;  my  lions  wouldn't  harm  me  for  the  world; 
you  see  I've  brought  them  up  by  kindness.  Now, 
entirely  on  account  of  the  complaints  of  the  family 
and  servants,  I  have  been  obliged  to  put  them  into 


178  HERSELF— IRELAND 

an  enclosure  of  tall  iron  bars,  but  they  are  as  play- 
ful and  gentle  as  cats.' 

"  '  I  beg  of  you,  Sir,'  I  said,  '  not  to  be  deceived 
by  those  lions.  They  may  love  you,  but  love  has 
never  changed  the  nature  of  a  beast  nor  of  a  man. 
Love  does  not  make  a  coward  courageous,  nor  a 
thief  honest,  nor  an  unfaithful  man  faithful.  Ani- 
mals and  man  remain  true  to  their  instincts.  That 
young  male  lion  is  now  just  about  ready  to  choose" 
his  mate,  and  he  will  want  to  offer  her  the  thing 
he  values  most.  It  may  be  you,  Sir.  You  say 
he  loves  you,  so  I  beg  of  you  to  be  on  your 
guard.  The  psychological  moment  has  arrived 
and  you  can't  be  too  watchful.  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  a  Philadelphia  family  who  had  a  young 
lioness  for  a  pet,  very  gentle,  harmless,  and  play- 
ful, but  who  broke  out  of  her  cage  one  night,  at- 
tacked her  master  on  a  balcony,  and  bit  the  fingers 
off  a  policeman  who  came  to  the  rescue?  Put  not 
your  trust  in  wild  animals,  Sir.' " 

"  And  then,"  I  said,  "  what  happened?  " 
Flood  sighed.  "  The  gentleman  went  back  to 
Connemara; — it  was  in  the  warm  spring.  The 
sap  was  flowing  in  the  trees  and  plants,  birds 
were  mating,  and  young  animals  were  getting  rest- 
less. The  lions'  master  went  to  the  enclosure, 
opened  the  gateway,  and  called  to  them.  They 
were  named  Paul  and  Virginia.  There  was  an 
instant's  pause,  then  Paul  sailed  through  the  air 


A  PERFORMING  ZOO  179 

like  a  projectile,  and  caught  the  man  by  the  throat. 
It  was  an  instantaneous  kill.  Afterwards  he 
dragged  the  body  into  the  enclosure  and  laid  it  at 
the  feet  of  Virginia." 

At  this  moment  I  am  sure  Virginia,  who  had 
been  listening  to  him  with  her  head  coquettishly 
turned  to  one  side,  grinned  at  me,  and  taking 
warning,  I  said  to  Flood,  "  I  don't  think,  after 
all,  I  will  bring  up  a  lion  on  moral  suasion;  per- 
haps it  is  better  to  leave  you  without  foolhardy 
rivals  to  your  job." 

Flood  smiled.    "  Maybe  you  are  right,"  he  said. 

"  But  there  are  civilised  lions,"  I  said.  "  Quite 
lately  a  travelling  circus  was  going  through  New 
York,  when  a  lion  managed  to  loosen  the  bars  of 
his  cage,  slip  out,  and  take  a  promenade  on  Broad- 
way. I  need  scarcely  say  that  those  who  met  him 
gave  him  the  right  of  way.  He  was  left  to  look 
at  the  shop -windows  unmolested.  Proceeding 
leisurely  toward  the  Battery  he  paused  before  a 
sign  and  read: 

" '  The  Best  Free  Lunch  Counter  in  the  World. 
See  For  Yourself.' 

"  And  he  saw  for  himself.  It  was  three  o'clock 
when  he  entered.  The  place  was  quite  empty. 
The  barkeeper  was  reading  The  Sun.  Hearing 
footsteps,  he  reached  for  a  bottle  of  Bourbon 
whiskey,  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  paper,  and  paused 


180  HERSELF— IRELAND 

to  see  a  large,  shaggy  lion  eating  from  '  left  to 
right.'  Beef,  chickens,  hams,  ducks,  peach  Melbas, 
disappeared  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  When 
the  counter  was  cleared  of  food  the  lion,  with  ice 
cream  clinging  to  his  whiskers,  squatted  on  his 
haunches  and  made  full  rumbles  of  grateful 
thanks.  The  barkeeper,  not  understanding  his 
language,  was  petrified  with  fear,  and  his  silence 
was  getting  on  the  lion's  nerves;  who,  between 
the  rumbles,  began  impatiently  swishing  his  tail. 
The  distracted  keepers,  rushing  down  Broadway, 
heard  familiar  sounds,  followed  that  direction,  and 
with  no  difficulty  captured  the  Free  Lunch 
Lion." 

"  The  man  was  mighty  lucky  to  have  food  be- 
twixt him  and  the  lion,"  said  Flood.  "  I'm  glad 
they  took  him  alive.  I  like  the  beasts." 

"  Tell  me  how  it  is  that  you  are  so  successful 
with  your  little  cubs;  it  is  wonderful  how  they 
prosper  in  captivity." 

"  I  have  been  at  this  business  a  long  time,  and 
I  make  a  specialty  of  baby  lions  and  their  diseases, 
just  as  some  doctors  make  a  specialty  of  children's 
diseases.  The  critical  moment  for  a  cub  is  when 
he  begins  to  eat  meat ;  then  he  must  be  looked  after 
with  great  care.  Lions  vary  as  much  in  constitu- 
tion and  character  as  human  beings.  One  animal 
is  sulky  and  morbid,  a  second  is  stupid,  a  third  is 
subject  to  sudden  fits  of  rage,  a  fourth  is  timid, 


A  PERFORMING  ZOO  181V 

and  a  fifth  curious.  There  are  lions  and  lionesses 
who  can  only  be  trained  by  a  woman — others  can 
only  be  trained  by  a  man.  I've  had  lions  of 
exceptional  intelligence  and  sold  them  to  trainers, 
but  a  cub  from  the  jungle  is  more  easily  managed 
than  one  born  in  captivity;  accustomed  to  man 
from  the  beginning,  he  has  no  respect  or  fear  of 
him — while  to  a  wild  feline,  man  is  still  a 
mystery." 

Then  we  discussed  the  insurrection  and  the  War. 
Flood  told  me  that  only  a  week  before  his  eldest 
son  had  been  shot  in  the  battle  of  the  Somme.  At 
the  beginning  of  the  War  he  enlisted  in  the  Army, 
was  on  active  service  for  many  months  in  France, 
had  been  granted  a  short  leave,  and  immediately 
after  rejoining  his  regiment  he  had  been  killed. 

"  He  was  one  of  the  finest  young  fellows  you 
could  wish  to  see.  Tall,  over  six  feet,  straight 
as  a  pine  tree,  fresh-faced,  as  strong  as  a  lion; 
and  there  was  nothing  he  was  afraid  of;  neither 
man,  nor  beast,  nor  gun,"  said  Flood.  "  He's 
gone;  it's  harder  on  his  Mother  than  it  is  on  me," 
he  sighed  heavily. 

Ireland  has  paid  her  toll.  After  the  grand  push 
I  met  many  mothers  too  poor  to  wear  black 
clothes,  but  they  wore  mourning  in  their  eyes  and 
in  their  hearts. 

If  Flood  has  a  rival  in  the  Zoo,  it  is  the  keeper 
of  the  elephants.  "  General "  and  "  Captain"  are 


182  HERSELF— IRELAND 

as  well  trained  as  the  usual  performing  animals 
of  a  circus,  the  most  amusing  trick  of  their 
repertoire  being  a  musical  number.  The  small 
elephant  plays  the  mouth-organ  sweetly,  the  large 
elephant  plays  it  boldly.  But  they  had  only  one 
mouth-organ  between  them,  that  one  unworthy  of 
their  talent,  and  they  were  obliged  to  wait  the 
convenience  of  each  other.  Two  instruments 
would  enable  them  to  perform  duets.  I  supplied 
the  deficiency  with  a  fine  large,  resonant,  red 
Japanese  mouth-organ,  which  Mr.  Percy  La- 
bouchere  found  for  me  in  Cork.  On  the  day  of 
presentation,  when  I  offered  it  to  the  large  ele- 
phant, he  gave  it  a  great  blast,  which  sounded 
quite  a  Wagnerian  chord ;  then  quickly  transferred 
his  attention  to  me,  to  see  if  I  had  concealed  any 
apples  about  my  wearing  apparel.  Since  that 
day  there  have  been  many  rehearsals,  and  now  the 
elephants  are  adepts  in  duets. 

All  animals  can  be  taught  tricks;  a  member  of 
my  family  owns  a  guinea-pig  who  sings.  His 
voice  has  not  the  full  volume  nor  the  thrilling 
quality  of  Caruso's,  but  when  his  mistress  says, 
"  Sing,  Squeezel,"  he  pipes  a  fairy  rondeau  to 
carrots,  and  swells  to  twice  his  normal  size  at  the 
applause  which  follows.  Sir  John  Lubbock 
claimed  to  have  a  dog  who  could  talk,  and  Lucian 
made  his  animals  in  conversation  both  wise  and 
witty. 


A  PERFORMING  ZOO  183 

"  Tell  me,"  says  Micyllus  to  the  Cock,  "  when 
you  were  a  dog,  a  horse,  or  a  fish,  or  a  frog,  how 
did  you  like  that  life?" 

"  Every  one  of  these  lives  is  much  more  quiet 
than  that  of  man,  as  the  life  of  animals  is  within 
the  bounds  of  natural  desires  and  needs :  for  among 
them  you  could  never  see  a  usurious  horse,  or  a 
backbiting  frog,  a  sophisticated  jay,  a  gormet 
gnat,  or  a  deceitful  cock." 

I  will  allow  that  a  frog's  face  does  not  suggest 
backbiting  proclivities,  it  is  too  broad  and  genial; 
and  a  horse  is  too  honest  for  usury,  but  jay  birds 
— at  least  American  jay  birds — are  gay  birds,  and 
are  more  than  sophisticated,  for: 

"  De  jay  bird  he  'loped  wid  de  blue  bird  wife, 
An'  it  almost  took  dat  blue  bird  life." 

And  gormet  gnats — I  bear  their  scars  still — are 
certainly  to  be  found  during  the  summer  months 
in  Ireland;  and  I've  often  seen  a  calculating  and 
deceitful  cock,  head  held  high,  staring  absent- 
mindedly  away  from  a  worm,  and  when  the  atten- 
tion of  all  the  hens  was  distracted,  he  would  swoop 
down  and  swallow  it. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  TREASURES  OF  IRELAND 

WHILE  there  is  no  capital  that  has  given  me 
more  pleasure  than  Dublin — the  fine  Georgian 
houses,  the  picture  galleries,  the  splendid  libraries 
— the  museum  has  given  me  the  greatest  pleasure 
of  all.  It  was  not  originally  designed  for  a  pub- 
lic building,  but  was  a  magnificent  house  built  by 
the  first  Duke  of  Leinster,  the  father  of  Sir 
Edward  FitzGerald,  for  his  unusually  large  fa- 
mily; the  beautiful  and  charming  Duchess  being 
the  mother  of  eighteen  children.  Lady  Leitrim 
wrote  of  her  when  a  widow,  "  The  black  is  a  set- 
ting for  the  fair  complexion.  As  she  sat  there, 
a  wax  candle  light  upon  her  face,  she  was  as  proud 
and  graceful  as  a  swan." 

When  his  friends  asked  the  Duke  why  he  had 
built  his  house  in  an  unfashionable  quarter,  he 
answered  airily,  "  Oh,  they  will  follow  me  wher- 
ever I  go,"  and  he  was  quite  right;  being  a  Duke 
they  followed  him.  And  it  is  the  same  to-day. 

There  were  innumerable  bedrooms,  dressing- 
rooms,  nurseries,  playrooms,  and  magnificent 
suites  of  reception  rooms.  When  the  house  was 
young  and  filled  with  young  voices  and  childlike 

184 


THE  TREASURES  OF  IRELAND      185 

effervescence  it  must  have  been,  in  spite  of  its 
dignity  and  size,  a  gay  and  cheerful  place,  al- 
though Lord  Edward  FitzGerald  wrote  his 
mother,  "  Leinster  House  does  not  inspire  the 
brightest  ideas,"  but  anywhere  his  reflections  be- 
fore the  rebellion  would  have  been  sad  and 
anxious.  The  house  must  have  been  at  one  time 
the  scene  of  lively  gaiety.  The  Duke  of  Leinster 
was  an  actor  and  singer  of  more  than  ordinary 
talent;  there  were  theatricals  and  concerts,  balls 
and  ridottos,  when  great  ladies  and  gentlemen  in 
masques  and  spangles  brightened  the  rooms  with 
changing  colour.  And  some  subtle  sentiment 
seems  yet  to  linger  about  the  place.  It  is  a 
museum,  but  it  is  human.  After  the  Union,  when 
so  many  great  houses  met  with  changes,  Leinster 
House  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  Government, 
and  became  the  National  Museum. 

One  of  the  rooms  has  been  embellished  by  the 
superb  ceiling  and  finely  proportioned  panelling 
and  doors,  the  noble  chimney-piece  and  fire-grate 
from  Tracton  House — now  demolished — in  St. 
Stephen's  Green.  The  large  rooms  leading  from 
one  to  the  other  lend  themselves  to  the  display  of 
the  collection,  which  is  varied  enough  to  suit  the 
most  profound  scholar,  or  a  lady  interested  only 
in  jewels.  An  archaeologist  might  linger  for  days 
among  the  stones,  the  arrowheads,  the  urns,  and 
utensils  of  ancient  Ireland.  An  interesting  speci- 


186  HERSELF— IRELAND 

men  is  the  stone  covered  with  spirals,  which  stands 
at  the  entrance  of  the  tumulus  of  New  Grange. 
The  deep  carving  has  defied  the  wind  and  weather 
of  centuries.  But  that  the  Irish  climate  is  kind  is 
proved  by  many  treasures  that  have  lain  in  the 
earth  eight  or  nine  hundred  years,  and  are  still 
in  a  fine  state  of  preservation.  A  piece  of  fringe 
made  of  horse-hair  about  four  hundred  years 
before  Christ  was  recently  found  in  a  County 
Antrim  bog,  and  in  1886,  near  the  village  of 
Islandbridge,  swords,  spearheads,  bosses  of  shields, 
tongs,  brooches,  mantlepins,  and  helmet  crests  of 
white  metal  were  unearthed  and  proved  to  be  rich 
relics  of  Scandinavian  chiefs  engaged  in  battle 
against  the  ancient  Irish,  "greatly  to  their  dis- 
advantage on  account  of  the  Danes'  corslets,  thin 
and  valiant  swords,  and  their  well  rivetted  long 
spears."  These  ancient  warriors  with  their  primi- 
tive implements  fought  with  more  manliness  than 
men  of  the  present  day.  It  was  a  fair  field  and  no 
quarter,  but  the  air  was  clear  of  gas,  and  bombs 
did  not  tear  up  the  earth  and  demolish  strong- 
holds, which  stood  unimpaired  even  when  they  sur- 
rendered through  force  of  arms.  The  Danish  vik- 
ing sword-hilts  of  bronze,  gilded  and  decorated 
with  insets  of  silver  wire,  are  finely  wrought,  but 
are  not  finer  than  ancient  Irish  work.  The  sword 
from  the  cemetery  of  Kilmainham  is  said  to  be 
one  of  the  most  perfect  swords  in  any  museum. 


THE  TREASURES  OF  IRELAND      187 

And  the  Irish  brooches  of  silver,  of  bronze,  of 
silver  gilt  bronze,  of  enamel,  and  of  gold  and  sil- 
ver cunningly  inlaid,  are  remarkable  for  delicate 
handling.  The  most  celebrated  is  the  Tara  brooch, 
made  about  700  Anno  Domini,  and  discovered  in 
1850  on  the  strand  at  Betty stown  near  Drogheda. 
The  main  body  of  this  large  ornament  is  bronze 
decorated  with  fine  gold  filigree,  and  brilliant 
enamel  and  settings  of  blue  and  purple  glass  and 
of  amber.  The  back  of  the  brooch  is  probably 
executed  by  another  hand,  for  the  ornamentation 
of  hard  white  bronze  and  cloisonne  and  red  and 
blue  enamel  is  freer  in  style  than  the  front.  The 
fineness  of  the  work  is  exquisite;  it  was  probably 
made  by  a  friend  and  pupil  of  the  Great  Man  who 
designed  and  illustrated  the  Book  of  Kells.  Even 
more  ancient  than  the  brooch  of  Tara  is  a  small 
collection  of  beads.  Women  of  all  ages  have 
loved  beads.  Ladies  of  900  were  satisfied  with 
glass.  Ladies  of  1917  demand  pearls.  That  is  the 
expensive  difference.  The  eleven  glass  beads 
probably  made  in  800,  and  found  in  Kilmainham 
with  iron  weapons,  have  as  much  character  as 
those  manufactured  to-day.  Two  of  them  are 
dark  blue,  with  lattice  patterns  of  lighter  blue. 
A  large  one  is  of  green  glass  studded  with  green 
enamel.  How  history  repeats  itself  even  in  the 
combination  of  colour.  Green  and  yellow  as  a 
decoration  for  the  artistic  young  ladies  of  800, 


188  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"  Greenery  yallery  garments,"  according  to  Gil- 
bert, for  the  artistic  young  ladies  of  1877;  so  cen- 
turies pass  by,  and  there  is  nothing  new  under  the 
sun. 

A  jewel  fit  for  a  king.  The  Cross  of  Cong, 
perhaps  the  greatest  treasure  of  the  museum,  was 
made  for  a  King.  Turlough  O 'Conor,  King  of 
Ireland  in  1123,  designed  a  shrine  worthy  to  hold 
a  piece  of  the  true  Cross,  and  Irish  artisans 
fashioned  this  beautiful  piece  of  work.  The  Cross 
is  made  of  oak  as  hard  as  a  stone,  encased  with 
copper  plates,  enriched  by  ornaments  of  gilt 
bronze.  The  sides  are  framed  in  bands  of  silver, 
and  the  whole  is  held  together  by  nails  finished  in 
the  heads  of  animals,  each  nail  a  little  work  of  art. 
A  crystal  of  quartz  set  in  the  front  face  of  the 
Cross  covered  the  precious  relic.  The  proportions 
are  beautiful,  and  the  multiplicity  of  the  designs 
formed  of  gold  filigree  as  fine  as  a  spider's  web, 
show  a  fertile  imagination,  while  the  tenacious  set- 
ting of  the  stones  displays  enduring  craftsmanship. 
I  have  looked  again  and  again  at  the  Cross  of 
Cong  so  often  described  and  pictured,  and  never 
failed  to  discover  some  new  or  overlooked  beauty. 

Of  great  importance  in  the  museum  is  the  lovely 
gold  work. 

"  This,"  I  said  to  Mr.  Armstrong,  as  I  stood 
before  a  case  filled  with  beautiful  gold  Brob- 
dingnagian  ornaments,  pointing  to  a  fine  torque, 


THE  TREASURES  OF  IRELAND     189 

"  is  the  collar  of  gold  which  Malachi  won  from  the 
proud  invader." 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  this  gentleman  of  knowl- 
edgeable authority ;  "  it  is  of  a  much  later  period." 

"Will  you  please  show  me  the  collar  of  that 
celebrated  Red  Branch  Knight." 

"  It  has  not  been  discovered,"  said  Mr.  Arm- 
strong. 

"  Then,"  I  said,  "  I  will  have  to  select  a  large 
beautiful  torque  and  assign  it  to  Malachi." 

"  Oh,  you  cannot  do  that,"  said  Mr.  Arm- 
strong. "  You  really  cannot." 

How  damping  to  enthusiasm  and  to  fancy  is  a 
museum  conscience,  where  everything  must  be 
verified  by  facts,  dates,  and  evidence.  Only  a 
high-minded  and  patient  gentleman  delighting  in 
research  is  endowed  with  this  conscience.  I 
honour  it,  but  for  picturesque  description,  I  de- 
plore it.  Still  the  influence  is  admirable. 

A  lady  asked  me  recently  if  I  knew  anything 
that  would  cure  a  liar.  At  the  time  I  did  not. 
Now  I  am  convinced  that  archaeological  research 
would  do  it.  Though  I  regret  that  collar  which 
Erin  would  remember  so  much  better  if  it  could 
see  it  at  the  museum — and  nobody  the  wiser — 
still  it  is  some  consolation  to  know  that  the 
best  and  largest  collection  of  gold  ornaments  in 
Western  Europe  is  to  be  seen  in  Dublin.  In  the 
early  centuries  Wicklow  was  rich  in  gold,  and  even 


190  HERSELF— IRELAND 

yet  in  the  mountain  streams  an  occasional  unim- 
portant nugget  has  been  found.  There  are  many 
beautiful  specimens  of  almost  unalloyed  gold  in 
the  cases:  Tiaras,  diadems,  lunulas,  hair  plates  and 
ear-rings,  necklaces,  beads,  gorgets,  and  torques 
— I  love  torques  because  the  Fairy  Queen  wears 
one  of  diamond  dewdrops  around  her  lily-white 
neck,  and  a  golden  lunula  on  her  hair — bracelets, 
brooches,  fibulae,  and  torques  large  enough  to  en- 
circle the  waist,  little  trinkets  and  gorgeous  gold 
balls — some  of  them  larger  than  golf  balls — strung 
together,  and  used  by  the  Irish  chiefs  as  collars 
for  their  coal-black  steeds  on  coronation  days  or 
great  festivals.  Mr.  Armstrong  agreed  cautiously 
that  this  theory  of  mine  might  be  the  case,  but  I 
could  not  get  from  him  a  definite  admission. 

As  late  as  1810,  when  little  was  known  about 
Irish  antiquities,  two  beautiful  torques  were  found 
by  workmen  digging  in  the  Hill  of  Tara.  They 
were  evidently,  from  their  unusual  length — one 
was  over  five  and  a  half  feet  long,  and  the  other 
but  an  inch  shorter — intended  to  be  worn  over 
the  shoulder  and  across  the  breast,  holding  in  place 
rich  silk  draperies.  And  these  priceless  treasures 
were  hawked  about  the  streets  of  Navan,  and 
offered  for  three  or  four  shillings  as  old  brass,  but 
even  at  this  price  no  one  would  buy  them.  Luckily 
they  were  discovered  by  Lord  Essex  and  later 
acquired  by  the  Academy. 


THE  TREASURES  OF  IRELAND     191 

What  delightful  object  lessons  are  contained  in 
a  museum;  it  is  an  unforgettable  kindergarten  for 
grown-ups  in  the  history  of  a  people.  Throughout 
the  centuries  it  is  apparent  to  the  most  casual 
observer  that  the  Irish  had,  as  they  still  have, 
hands. 

I  asked  Miss  Carroll,  a  fashionable  Fifth  Ave- 
nue dressmaker,  who  were  the  best  fitters  after  the 
French,  and  she  said  the  Irish.  Her  head  fitter 
was  a  Miss  McKenna,  to  whom  she  paid  a  salary 
of  fifteen  pounds  a  week.  And  nowhere  in  the 
world  is  there  more  beautiful  lace  or  embroidery 
made  than  in  Ireland.  The  specimens  in  the  mu- 
seum are  very  complete.  Needlepoint,  of  course, 
is  the  richest  and  most  difficult  of  the  laces,  and 
is  a  correct  copy  of  old  Venetian  point.  I  have 
seen  much  lace  in  Venice,  but  never  as  beautiful  a 
piece  as  the  exquisite  apron  made  at  the  Presenta- 
tion Convent  of  Youghal.  It  is  a  work  of  art,  an 
ornament  that  a  Queen  might  envy.  Aprons  are 
pretty  things,  and  can  be  worn  coquettishly  or 
demurely  according  to  the  spirit  of  the  wearer. 
The  Baroness  Burdett  Coutts  always  wore  a  black 
silk  apron  in  the  afternoon.  My  aunt  Patty 
Hynes  wore  one  in  the  morning,  and  I  remember 
Marie  Tempest  in  a  costume  play,  wearing  a  short 
velvet  gown  of  grey  and  rose,  and  a  lovely  lace 
apron.  The  lace  schools  at  the  Presentation  Con- 
vent and  at  Kenmare  are  both  employing  many 


192  HERSELF— IRELAND 

workers.  Limerick  lace — needle  run  on  net — is 
not  of  great  value,  but  it  has  a  charming  filminess, 
the  advantage  of  being  flattering  and  becoming, 
and  is  recently  much  improved  by  the  use  of  cream 
thread  on  cream  net.  There  are  various  specimens 
of  this  lace  in  the  museum,  both  old  and  modern. 
A  flounce  made  in  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth 
century  has  an  exquisite  border  with  any  number 
of  different  stitches,  and  the  Carrickmacross  lace 
of  guipure  and  applique  is  very  handsome.  There 
is  an  Irish  cut  work — an  applique  of  muslin  on 
net — that  is  also  extremely  effective,  and  I  am 
very  fond  of  tatting — frivolite  they  call  it  in  New 
Orleans — I  remember  as  a  child  having  an  adora- 
tion for  "  Miss  Jenny,"  a  pretty  young  lady  with 
thick  brown  hair,  who  made  tatting  with  a  mother- 
of-pearl  shuttle.  And  I  have  never  seen  more 
lacey,  exquisite  frivolite  than  the  many  specimens 
in  the  museum. 

Irish  crochet  is  said  to  be  going  out  of  fashion, 
but  in  countries  with  a  warm  climate,  like  America, 
there  is  nothing  that  will  take  its  place,  withstand- 
ing as  it  does  the  onslaughts  of  the  most  vigorous 
washerwoman.  I  saw  a  new  design,  the  Coxcomb 
pattern,  in  Killarney  on  a  collar  and  cuffs,  and 
they  would  have  transformed  the  plainest  linen 
frock  into  a  thing  of  beauty. 

The  old  Irish  needlework  of  the  early  nineteenth 
century  is  a  marvel  of  beautiful,  honest,  pains- 


THE  TREASURES  OF  IRELAND     193 

taking  industry.  It  is  solid  enough  to  last  cen- 
turies. The  most  elaborate  intricate  patterns  were 
used,  and  the  soft  light  cambric  is  made  heavy  with 
raised  thick  embroidery.  Mr.  J.  J.  Buckley 
showed  me  a  number  of  blocks  for  handkerchiefs 
— when  handkerchiefs  were  worn  rather  large — 
designed  by  an  artist,  and  each  handkerchief  would 
have  taken  an  interminable  time  to  complete. 
Even  yet  with  the  modern  Irish  embroidery  there 
is  small  economy  of  time  in  any  of  the  designs. 
The  Swiss  are  the  people  of  all  others  whose 
patterns  in  embroidery  are  both  saving  of  time 
and  work.  In  all  the  centuries  the  Irish  have 
been  adepts  with  the  needle.  The  embroidery 
dress  of  Cuclinlainn,  who  lived  in  the  middle  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  was  that  of  an  artist.  He 
wore  a  soft  crimson  tunic,  with  a  gold-worked 
brooch  at  his  breast,  a  long-sleeved  fair  white 
linen  kirtle,  and  a  white  hood  enriched  with  em- 
broidery of  gold.  And  I  am  sure  he  had  blue 
Irish  eyes,  raven-black  hair,  and  was  good  to  look 
upon. 

Old  Irish  musical  instruments,  harpsichords 
with  thick  ivory  keys  and  smooth  inlays  of  brass, 
graceful  quaint  guitars,  and  narrow  violins  display 
the  most  exact  and  delicate  workmanship;  and 
the  Irish  pipes,  long  and  graceful  with  their  ivory 
and  silver  fittings  are  things  of  real  beauty.  I 
have  heard  a  blind  piper  play  them,  and  they  are 


194  HERSELF— IRELAND 

wilder  and  yet  more  soft  than  the  Scottish  bag- 
pipes. It  was  my  good  fortune  to  get  a  rare  old 
coloured  print  from  Miss  Eleanor  Persse  of  an 
Irish  piper,  and  it  was  so  exactly  what  I  wanted 
that  it  seems  almost  a  gift  from  the  fairies. 

The  form,  ornamentation,  design,  and  colour  of 
old  Irish  silver  can  all  be  studied  at  the  museum. 
Why  is  it  that  old  silver  has  a  more  bluish  tint, 
and  is  not  so  fiercely  brilliant  and  glossy  in  polish 
as  new  silver?  The  potato — or  dish  rings — are 
very  distinctly  Irish,  and  are  so  many  and  varied 
in  design  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  choose  a 
reproduction  of  one  among  them.  Johnson  copies 
them  with  exactitude.  I  like  myself  the  one  of 
1770  almost  better  than  any  of  them,  with  the  man 
in  a  tunic  among  the  roses.  A  dish  ring  sur- 
mounted by  a  black  Wedgwood  bowl  filled  with 
yellow  jonquils  is  a  lovely  combination  of  form 
and  colour.  The  loving-cups  are  also  very  beau- 
tiful. Instead  of  the  conventional  christening-cup, 
I  have  just  sent  Alma  Lucy— my  most  recently 
acquired  God-daughter — a  copy  of  an  old  Irish 
loving-cup.  She  can  comfortably  grasp  both  han- 
dles for  drinking  her  milk,  and  later  on  she  can 
fill  it  with  shamrocks. 

Every  day  the  good  workmanship  and  fine  de- 
signs of  old  Irish  silver  are  more  appreciated, 
and  the  commercial  value  increases.  Mr.  S.  J. 
Phillips  of  New  Bond  Street,  London,  whose 


1 


THE  TREASURES  OF  IRELAND     195 

father  and  grandfather  before  him  were  experts 
in  silver,  recently  acquired  four  potato  rings  which 
he  valued  at  two  hundred  pounds  each.  He  said 
they  were  not  the  best  specimens,  and  a  few  years 
ago  he  could  have  sold  them  for  a  less  price. 

With  Mr.  Westropp,  one  of  the  first  authorities 
on  glass  in  Europe,  making  additions  to  the  speci- 
mens of  old  glass — more  particularly  Irish  glass — 
the  collection  in  the  museum  is  very  complete. 
Glass  was  made  in  Ireland  as  early  as  1525.  In 
1729  the  Dublin  Journal  advertised,  "  At  the 
Round  Glass-House  in  Mary's  Lane,  Dublin,  are 
made  and  sold  all  sorts  of  fine  drinking  glasses, 
salvers,  baskets  with  handles  and  feet  for  dessert, 
fine  salts  ground  and  polished;  all  sorts  of  de- 
canters; lamps,  etc.,  and  for  the  encouragement 
of  dealers  it  is  proposed  to  sell  them  much  cheaper 
than  they  can  import  them  from  England  or 
elsewhere."  Possibly  the  "  baskets  with  feet  "  are 
the  salad  bowls  which  are  so  rare  and  highly  prized 
to-day. 

"  Sold  by  Hector  ye  glassman  to  ...  Oct. 
19,  1622.  Bunches  of  glass  at  XXVs  per  case." 
In  1781  Irish  glass  was  exceedingly  popular  in 
America.  "  Bunches  of  glass  "  from  Waterford 
and  Cork  were  exported  to  New  York — "  decan- 
ters " — I  saw  a  decanter  of  Waterford  glass  in 
Charleston,  South  Carolina — "tumblers,  wine- 
glasses, punch  glasses,  liqueur  bottles,  gerandoles, 


196  HERSELF— IRELAND 

chandeliers,  lustres  " — my  father  bought  a  pair  of 
lustres  made  in  Cork,  in  New  Orleans — "  celery 
bowls,  salad  and  sugar  bowls,  butter  coolers,  cream 
ewers,  custard  and  jelly  glasses,  candlesticks, 
pyramids  " — we  had  a  pyramid,  whether  it  was 
Irish  glass  I  do  not  know;  it  consisted  of  three 
tiers,  the  bottom  one  much  larger  than  the  top, 
of  plain  glass  cut  in  a  thumb-nail  design  at  the 
edge.  And  each  tier  held  glass  cups  of  the  same 
fashion.  This  pyramid  occupied  the  centre  of  the 
table  for  parties.  The  cups,  filled  with  custard, 
were  heaped  high  with  whipped  cream  and  jelly. 
And  we  had  a  lovely  large  pickle  urn,  and  a  celery 
glass  with  a  square  base  and  a  lip  turned  over  the 
top,  so  I  never  see  Irish  glass  that  it  does  not 
give  me  a  picture  of  the  Old  South.  My  mother 
seated  at  the  head  of  her  table,  before  a  japanned 
tray  gay  with  flowers  and  the  cups  of  sprigged 
china,  a  monster  sugar  bowl  of  cut  glass,  which  a 
negro  handed  to  the  family  and  guests  that  they 
might  generously  sweeten  their  own  tea;  a  dozen 
different  kinds  of  bread  and  cakes,  and  best  of 
all,  open-hearted,  lavish  hospitality — now,  alas, 
only  a  memory  of  the  past. 

In  Miss  Persse's  lovely  old  shop  across  the 
street,  there  is  a  certain  salad  bowl  with  a  square 
base.  It  greets  me  as  I  enter  the  door;  I  often 
touch  it  with  tenderness  and  my  lips  say,  "  Isn't 
it  lovely,  I  wish  it  were  mine,"  but  my  heart 


THE  TREASURES  OF  IRELAND     197 

says,  "  It  is  a  reminder  of  my  childhood,  of  my 
mother,  of  my  Aunt  Polly  Hynes,  of  the  old 
dining-room  with  its  six  windows  all  open,  and  the 
scent  of  roses  and  jessamine  in  the  air;  so  can  a 
bit  of  glass  conjure  sweet  memories.  I  wonder  if 
the  tall  candle  shades,  quite  two  feet  in  height, 
of  plain  or  cut  glass,  that  were  used  on  the  bal- 
conies to  guard  the  lighted  candles — they  were 
called  oilindieres  in  New  Orleans — could  have  been 
made  in  Ireland.  In  form  they  curved  inward  at 
top  and  bottom,  and  outward  to  the  centre.  Occa- 
sionally a  pair  are  to  be  found  in  the  South  but 
they  become  more  rare  each  year.  A  friend  in 
Georgia  has  eleven  old  Irish  cut-glass  syllabub 
cups,  handed  down  from  her  great-grandmother. 
Syllabub  can  only  have  its  proper  flavour  if 
served  in  glass.  I  have  never  partaken  of  it  in 
England,  but  it  is  still  popular  in  my  beloved 
South.  Uncle  Remus,  the  old  darkey  made  im- 
mortal by  Joel  Chandler  Harris,  said  to  the  little 
boy  who  brought  him  from  "  the  big  house  "  a 
dainty  supper  sent  by  Miss  Sally,  "What's  dis 
here,  Honey,  is  it  silly  bug?  " 

"  Yes,  Uncle  Remus,  I  think  it  is." 
"  Den   I   don't  lak   it,  my   chile.     When  you 
gimme   foam   gimme   foam.     When   you   gimme 
whiskey  gimme  whiskey." 

This  is  one  of  my  favourite  quotations;   like 
Uncle  Remus,  I  desire  the  definite.    Do  not  give 


198  HERSELF— IRELAND 

me  the  froth  of  love  or  friendship ;  give  me  the  sub- 
stance. 

As  happened  so  often,  England  with  heavy 
taxes  killed  the  glass  industries  in  Ireland,  but 
there  is  no  reason  why  they  should  not  be  revived, 
with  Muckish  Mountain  mainly  composed  of  beau- 
tiful white  sand,  and  white  sand  in  Coalisland,  and 
in  Donegal,  any  number  of  factories  could  be 
started,  and  the  beautiful  models  and  drawings  of 
good  old  glass  are  at  hand.  The  great  glass  manu- 
factories in  America  should  secure  all  of  the  old 
Irish  models  possible  and  reproduce  them.  Miss 
Persse,  an  authority  on  glass,  always  has  lovely 
pieces,  and  there  are  drawings  of  good  decanters 
and  tumblers,  bowls  and  other  objects  obtainable 
at  the  Museum.  I  saw  two  American  candle- 
sticks on  simple  lines,  at  Mrs.  Hanney's — the  wife 
of  George  Birmingham — they  looked  well  on  each 
side  of  an  old  mirror.  The  specimens  of  Irish 
tapestry  in  Dublin — which  is  being  so  well  re- 
vived by  the  Dun  Emer  Guild — are  very  well 
preserved.  The  Defence  of  Londonderry,  and  the 
Battle  of  the  Boyne,  in  the  Old  Parliament  house 
—The  Bank  of  Ireland — retain  their  smoothness 
and  brilliancy  of  colour,  to  a  remarkable  degree, 
and  there  are  probably  existing  a  good  many 
pieces  of  Irish  tapestry  assigned  to  English  and 
French  artists.  There  are  two  effective  and  suc- 
cessful examples  of  the  Dun  Emer  tapestry  in  the 


THE  TREASURES  OF  IRELAND     199 

museum.  One  is  a  copy  of  Flemish  verdure  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  and  the  other  is  a  small 
panel.  The  border  of  acorns  and  oak  leaves  is 
broad  and  free,  and  the  centre,  a  background  of 
trees  with  doves  and  an  owl  in  the  branches,  a 
peacock  and  a  raven  standing  on  either  side  of  an 
allegorical  figure  in  rich  robes,  is  a  bold  and  deco- 
rative piece  of  work. 


198  HERSELF— IRELAND 

me  the  froth  of  love  or  friendship ;  give  me  the  sub- 
stance. 

As  happened  so  often,  England  with  heavy 
taxes  killed  the  glass  industries  in  Ireland,  but 
there  is  no  reason  why  they  should  not  be  revived, 
with  Muckish  Mountain  mainly  composed  of  beau- 
tiful white  sand,  and  white  sand  in  Coalisland,  and 
in  Donegal,  any  number  of  factories  could  be 
started,  and  the  beautiful  models  and  drawings  of 
good  old  glass  are  at  hand.  The  great  glass  manu- 
factories in  America  should  secure  all  of  the  old 
Irish  models  possible  and  reproduce  them.  Miss 
Persse,  an  authority  on  glass,  always  has  lovely 
pieces,  and  there  are  drawings  of  good  decanters 
and  tumblers,  bowls  and  other  objects  obtainable 
at  the  Museum.  I  saw  two  American  candle- 
sticks on  simple  lines,  at  Mrs.  Hanney's — the  wife 
of  George  Birmingham — they  looked  well  on  each 
side  of  an  old  mirror.  The  specimens  of  Irish 
tapestry  in  Dublin — which  is  being  so  well  re- 
vived by  the  Dun  Emer  Guild — are  very  well 
preserved.  The  Defence  of  Londonderry,  and  the 
Battle  of  the  Boyne,  in  the  Old  Parliament  house 
—The  Bank  of  Ireland — retain  their  smoothness 
and  brilliancy  of  colour,  to  a  remarkable  degree, 
and  there  are  probably  existing  a  good  many 
pieces  of  Irish  tapestry  assigned  to  English  and 
French  artists.  There  are  two  effective  and  suc- 
cessful examples  of  the  Dun  Emer  tapestry  in  the 


THE  TREASURES  OF  IRELAND     199 

museum.  One  is  a  copy  of  Flemish  verdure  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  and  the  other  is  a  small 
panel.  The  border  of  acorns  and  oak  leaves  is 
broad  and  free,  and  the  centre,  a  background  of 
trees  with  doves  and  an  owl  in  the  branches,  a 
peacock  and  a  raven  standing  on  either  side  of  an 
allegorical  figure  in  rich  robes,  is  a  bold  and  deco- 
rative piece  of  work. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY 

"  You  can  catch  more  flies  with  a  spoonful  of 
honey  than  with  a  quart  of  vinegar."  This  was  the 
much  advocated  proverb  of  William  Dargan,  the 
son  of  a  farmer,  who  became  a  great  engineer,  and 
subsequently  was  one  of  the  largest  capitalists  of 
Ireland.  It  was  through  his  munificent  generosity 
that  the  people  of  Dublin  held  the  Exhibition  of 
1853.  Queen  Victoria  offered  him  a  baronetcy 
which  he  refused;  perhaps  with  wisdom,  as  in  that 
case  the  statue  which  stands  at  the  entrance  to  the 
National  Gallery  would  have  borne  his  title,  Sir 
William  Dargan,  instead  of  the  one  word,  "  Dar- 
gan," which  now  excites  interest  and  curiosity. 
We  would  have  been  congenial  spirits,  this  great 
man  and  my  humble  self,  for  I  too  know  that  more 
flies  are  to  be  caught  with  honey  than  with  vinegar. 

Going  into  a  grocer's  shop  in  Graf  ton  Street 
this  morning  with  a  very  little  honey  I  caught  a 
fly,  and  the  wherewithal — a  pound  of  sugar — to 
catch  more. 

"  Can  you  let  me  have  a  little  sugar? "  I  asked 
the  salesman. 

"  Impossible,  Madam,  we  have  no  sugar  in  the 

200 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY       201 

house.  You  must  get  it  from  your  regular 
grocer." 

With  great  meekness  I  said,  "  You  are  my  regu- 
lar grocer;  I  have  been  getting  biscuits  and  fruit 
from  you  all  the  winter." 

"  You  shall  have  a  pound  of  sugar,  Madam,  and 
more  if  you  want  it,"  he  said. 

And  then  I  went  to  the  National  Gallery,  and 
stepped  lightly  on  the  grass,  as  I  paused  a  mo- 
ment to  say  good-morning  to  Dargan  before 
spending  some  hours  with  the  pictures. 

As  I  looked  around  the  portrait  gallery,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  people  of  the  eighteenth  and 
nineteenth  centuries  were  more  beautiful  than 
people  of  the  twentieth  century.  The  features  of 
the  faces  were  more  regular,  the  expression  was 
agreeably  contemplative,  and  there  was  an  air  of 
refinement  that  is  absent  in  the  present-day  por- 
traits. Or  were  the  portrait  painters  more  willing 
to  subjugate  themselves  to  their  sitters?  Now 
individualism  must  be  expressed  at  all  costs.  An 
artist  looks  upon  a  portrait  not  so  much  as  a  like- 
ness as  a  startling  revelation  of  his  own  individu- 
ality and  that  of  his  model.  A  sculptor  moulds 
the  head  of  a  distinguished  man  into  a  double- 
chinned,  tumouresque-eyed,  somewhat  human- 
looking  tortoise,  and  the  world  of  art  pronounces  it 
full  of  rugged  strength  and  originality.  To 
accentuate  the  animal  in  grotesque  protuberances 


202  HERSELF— IRELAND 

of  flesh  or  otherwise,  is  the  refuge  of  the  artist 
who  is  unable  to  penetrate  the  divine  spark  in 
man,  the  soul.  This,  Gilbert  Stuart,  our  Ameri- 
can artist,  who  painted  a  goodly  number  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen  when  he  made  a  stay  in  Ireland, 
has  accomplished  in  his  revealing  portrait  of 
Grattan. 

There  sits  the  man,  distinguished  in  appearance 
and  in  mind.  The  face  is  long,  and  the  nose  deli- 
cate. The  red-brown  eyes  of  quick  affection  and 
understanding  look  with  a  quiet  humour  upon  the 
world.  The  curling  hair  is  a  russet  grey,  and  he 
wears  a  folded  stock  of  white  and  a  black  velvet 
coat  with  a  high  collar.  He  was  then  of  middle 
age,  but  clearly  on  the  way  "  to  learn  the  secret " 
— although  it  was  later  that  he  wrote: 

"  Solitude  is  bad.  I  have  tried  Tinnahinch  for 
twenty  years.  It  leads  to  a  sort  of  madness. 
You  think  of  your  vexations,  your  age.  Society 
should  always  be  in  your  power.  An  old  man  can- 
not enjoy  solitude.  He  has  learned  the  secret. 
He  has  found  out  the  rogueries  of  Fortune.  NOT 
will  reading  supply  the  want.  I  would  live  in  a 
house  full  of  society  that  I  might  escape  from 
myself.  I  was  called  the  Spirit  of  the  Dargle. 
I  found  out  that  a  man's  worst  companion  is  him- 
self." 

And  if  a  lonely  man  is  a  sad  companion  for 
himself,  it  is  a  thousand  times  worse  for  a  lonely 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY      203 

woman — this  I  know — who  has  less  independence 
of  mind  and  action  than  a  man. 

A  second  beautiful  portrait  by  Gilbert  Stuart  is 
William  Burton  Conyngham.  The  warm  brown 
and  soft  reds  of  the  background,  draperies,  and 
costume  are  the  colours  of  an  American  forest  be- 
fore the  trees  of  autumn  shed  their  final  leaves. 
The  portrait  of  Miss  Dolly  Munroe,  by  Angelica 
Kauffman,  dressed,  as  the  novelists  of  the  day 
would  describe,  "  in  some  soft,  clinging  white  ma- 
terial " — why  always  this  uncertainty  of  stuff  I 
know  not,  as  there  are  in  clinging  materials, 
crepe  de  chene,  chiffon,  mousseline  de  soie,  tissue, 
Georgette,  and  satin  to  choose  from. — Probably 
Dolly's  gown  with  a  folded  bodice,  embroidered  in 
gold,  was  nothing  more  mysterious  than  paduasoy 
or  satin.  With  this  she  wore  a  blue  scarf,  and  on 
the  table  at  her  side  is  a  bouquet  of  roses.  The 
young  lady  is  a  plump  and  pleasing  person,  with 
dark  hair  and  candid  eyes,  but  her  counterfeit 
presentment  by  no  means  comes  up  to  her  own 
reputation  as  a  resplendent  beauty,  followed  by 
such  hosts  of  admirers  that  she  was  obliged  to  walk 
at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  in  St.  Stephen's 
Green  to  avoid  them. 

Peg  Woffington,  whose  reputation  as  a  great 
and  moving  actress  has  survised  the  centuries, 
must  have  been  more  beautiful  in  expression  and 
animation  than  in  regularity  of  feature,  as  the 


204  HERSELF— IRELAND 

lower  part  of  the  face  is  too  slenderly  oval  for 
the  broad  brow.  Dressed  in  black  and  silver,  and 
wearing  a  quaint  hat,  as  the  dashing  Sir  Harry 
Wildairs — one  of  her  favourite  characters — her 
portrait  is  arresting  and  improves  with  acquaint- 
ance. Not  far  away  the  brilliant  eyes  of  Gar- 
rick,  whom  she  loved,  and  who  jilted  her,  seem  to 
look  mockingly  at  her  jaunty  air. 

Near  by  is  a  better  friend,  the  Countess  of 
Coventry.  A  lovely  woman,  with  soft  black  eyes, 
an  arch  face,  and  dark  hair  turned  back  from  a 
pretty  round  forehead.  She  wears  a  gown  of  grey 
taffetas  trimmed  in  many  little  rosettelike  bows  of 
pink  satin.  As  the  beautiful  Maria  Gunning, 
when  for  want  of  a  proper  court  dress  she  could 
not  be  presented,  Peg  Woffington,  noted  for  her 
generous  deeds,  sent  not  only  to  her,  but  to  her 
sister,  the  regulation  gowns.  The  beautiful  Gun- 
nings made  a  sensation,  became  the  toasts  of 
Dublin,  and  from  her  many  admirers  Maria  chose 
the  Earl  of  Coventry  and  married  him. 

Among  the  modern  portraits  the  late  Recorder, 
Sir  Frederick  Falkiner,  in  wig  and  splendid  gold- 
laced  gown,  interested  me ;  not  so  much  pictorially, 
but  from  the  complexity  of  his  character.  With 
an  overwhelming  desire  to  be  sternly  just,  the 
interference  of  his  kind  heart  made  him  liable  to 
be  more  than  merciful,  and  he  was  undone  when 
it  came  to  a  woman's  tears.  A  case  came  before 


THE  PIPING  BOY 

By  Nathaniel  Hone 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY      205 

him  of  a  man  who  was  accused  of  being  a  gar- 
rotter.  The  circumstantial  evidence  was  going 
against  him,  and  the  prisoner  and  his  wife  who 
was  in  court,  knew  there  was  a  possibility  of  con- 
viction and  penal  servitude,  as  the  judge  had 
determined  to  put  down  the  horrible  crime. 
When  things  were  looking  serious  the  wife  turned 
to  an  eminent  barrister  and  said,  "  For  the  love  of 
God,  say  somethin'  for  him,  your  honour." 

The  barrister  answered,  "  If  a  man  in  a  wig 
and  gown  were  to  address  the  Judge,  my  good 
woman,  he  would  probably  be  hanged." — Judge 
Falkiner  was  extremely  strict  on  such  points. — 
"  Speak  to  him  yourself.  He  won't  hang  you." 

And  the  woman  called  out,  "  Judge  darlint, 
listen  to  me.  He's  the  best  of  husbands,  he's  the 
best  of  fathers,  'tis  not  him  that's  done  the  gar- 

rottin',  Judge  dar "  "  Silence  in  the  Court," 

shouted  the  surprised  clerk.  The  Judge,  visibly 
affected,  looked  kindly  towards  the  woman,  but 
the  next  witness  by  very  damaging  evidence  was 
evidently  alienating  his  sympathy,  when  the  man's 
wife  whispered  to  the  barrister,  "  Now,  your  hon- 
our, what's  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  Sob,"  said  the  barrister,  "  and  keep  on  sob- 
bing." 

"  Did  you  see  the  prisoner  that  evening  with 
a  cord  in  his  hand? "  questioned  the  opposing 
counsel. 


206  HERSELF— IRELAND 

A  loud  sob  completely  drowned  the  answer  of 
the  witness,  and  the  woman  amidst  alternate  sobs 
and  groans  called  out,  "If  so  be  he  had  anny 
cord,  himself  was  bringin'  it  home  for  me  laundry 
wur-ruk.  And  now  from  that  little  kindness 
what's  to  become  of  us  all! " 

The  Judge's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  he  cleared 
his  throat,  wiped  his  glasses  with  his  pocket  hand- 
kerchief, and  summed  up  the  case,  saying  the 
evidence  only  showed  the  prisoner  had  been  led 
astray,  that  it  was  not  strong  enough  to  convict 
him,  and  with  a  caution  the  man  was  dismissed. 
As  they  walked  down  the  street  the  woman  was 
overheard  saying  to  her  husband,  "  Ach  the  poor 
craythur,  there  should  niver  be  a  thrial  before 
him  without  a  woman  superintendin'  it,  an'  if  you 
betray  his  trust,  Michael,  I'll  take  a  hand  in  gar- 
rottin'  meself,  an'  'twill  not  be  far  from  home 
naythur." 

Sir  Frederick  Falkiner  was  not  unlike  a  popu- 
lar Governor  of  Texas  who,  at  the  end  of  his 
term,  was  said  to  have  completely  emptied  the 
jails  of  prisoners  through  the  tears  of  their  women- 
kind. 

The  portraits  of  Balfe,  Maclise,  and  Lover 
make  them  all  very  handsome  men;  the  smaller 
portrait  of  Lover  as  a  youth  is  a  mellow  and 
charming  drawing  by  himself.  A  later  one  of  an 
aristocratic  man  of  thirty-five  or  forty  is  when 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY       207 

he  had  attained  fame  as  a  novelist,  poet,  painter, 
and  musician.  A  little  drawing  of  Mrs.  Norton 
with  long  eyelashes  and  a  regular  profile  looks  as 
though  she  had  stepped  from  a  book  of  beauty. 
A  sketch  made  during  the  trial  of  Robert  Emmet 
bears  a  striking  resemblance  to  Sir  Henry  Irving. 
The  death-mask  above  it  looks  more  like  Sir 
Henry's  gifted  and  lamented  younger  son,  Law- 
rence, who  with  his  wife  Mabel  was  drowned  off 
the  Coast  of  Canada  when  the  Empress  of  India 
went  down.  Lady  Irving  is  an  Irishwoman,  this 
may  account  for  the  likeness  of  the  Irving  family 
to  Robert  Emmet.  The  death-mask  of  Wolfe 
Tone  has  the  same  fine  aquiline  features.  There 
is  a  certain  Dante-esque  type  of  face  which  be- 
longs to  the  dreamer,  the  poet,  the  man  of  visions, 
the  man  of  sacrifice,  and  the  fanatic.  Lord  Ed- 
ward FitzGerald  looks  much  too  human  and  too 
genial  for  the  part  he  played.  His  sympathetic 
eyes  were  a  deep  blue,  his  lips  were  full,  as  of  one 
who  enjoyed  laughter;  but  the  dark  Rosaleen 
made  him  her  own,  and  he  died  for  her. 

The  drawing  of  James  Clarence  Mangan,  by 
Sir  Frederick  W.  Burton,  after  his  death,  is  of 
touching  and  perfect  beauty.  The  old  adage, 
"  Beauty  is  but  skin  deep  and  ugly's  to  the  bone," 
is  a  plain  way  of  saying  that  great  beauty  depends 
upon  correct  bone  structure.  There  are  people 
who  in  youth  have  the  beauty  of  flesh,  and  colour, 


208  HERSELF— IRELAND 

and  skin;  it  passes,  flesh  sags,  skin  withers,  colour 
fades,  and  in  old  age  there  is  nothing  left  to 
attest  to  the  rosy  past.  But  a  beautiful  skull 
endures  to  the  end.  The  head  of  Mangan  is 
slightly  raised,  the  curling  hair  has  fallen  back, 
and  every  line  of  the  face  is  revealed,  the  broad 
brow,  the  fine  nose,  the  lips  apart — which  retain 
a  little  of  their  recent  suffering — are  softly 
moulded,  and  the  refined  chin  and  thoughtful, 
sunken  temples  surmount  disease  and  death,  and 
still  remain  beautiful.  What  is  more  saddening 
than  beauty  and  tragedy  linked  together  by  the 
iron  hand  of  circumstance? 

A  more  cheerful  subject  is  Robert  Jackson's 
portrait  of  Thomas  Moore,  who  looks  clean,  fresh, 
and  wonderfully  well  dressed  for  a  poet.  The 
face,  with  a  shortish  nose,  sympathetic  eyes,  a 
handsome,  humorous  mouth,  and  a  jovial  dimple 
in  the  chin,  is  most  agreeable.  Sir  Martin  Arthur 
Shee  has  also  painted  a  delightful  portrait  of 
Moore,  in  a  deep-red  velvet  coat  and  a  high  white 
stock. 

The  portrait  of  William  Carleton,  a  writer 
who  has  given  me  infinite  pleasure,  is  not  unlike — 
with  his  high,  dome-like  forehead,  and  ruddy  coun- 
tenance— that  blunt  cairl  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Sir 
William  Wilde  with  wide-awake,  merry  blue  eyes 
looks  as  if  he  might  be  enjoying  a  witty  paradox 
of  his  son,  Oscar. 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY       209 

A  pleasing  portrait  of  William  Allingham,  the 
writer  and  poet,  brought  to  memory: 

"  Four  ducks  on  a  pond, 
A  green  bank  beyond, 
A  blue  sky  of  spring, 
White  clouds  on  the  wing : 
What  a  little  thing 
To  remember  for  years — 
To  remember  with  tears !  " 

I  too  have  a  green  bank  beyond,  to  remember 
with  tears. 

The  portraits  of  Stella,  which  hang  by  a  hand- 
some one  of  the  Dean,  are  prim,  with  a  forehead 
so  high  that  I  am  sure  it  was  supplied  by  the 
taste  of  the  artist,  and  not  by  the  unkindness  of 
nature. 

A  portrait  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  shows  him 
more  magnificently  dressed  than  his  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, who  hangs  by  his  side.  He  wears  a  corse- 
let and  trunks  of  grey  velvet  completely  covered 
in  pearls.  Years  ago  Bram  Stoker  described  the 
costume  of  Wilson  Barrett  in  Nero  as  "  a  low- 
necked,  short-sleeved  *  nighty '  made  of  emeralds." 

In  the  very  complete  Dutch  collection  of  pic- 
tures there  are  any  number  of  decorative  por- 
traits. One  of  a  young,  fresh-faced  girl — with  soft, 
curling  hair  caught  up  at  the  back  with  pearls, 
and  a  gown  of  rich  green  silk,  and  well-placed, 
pretty  hands — by  an  undiscovered  artist  is  a 


210  HERSELF— IRELAND 

hauntingly  charming  picture.  Miereveld's  portrait 
of  Elizabeth  Brydges,  painted  about  1680,  is  as 
brilliant  in  colour  as  if  finished  yesterday.  The 
face  is  coquettish  and  pleasing,  the  hair  is  dressed 
in  curls,  and  from  a  pearl  comb  floats  a  fine  gauze 
veil.  The  necklace  and  pearl-shaped  ear-rings 
are  of  pearls,  and  the  costume,  a  thing  of  endur- 
ing beauty,  is  of  cream  silk,  brocaded  in  small 
flowers  of  brown  and  red,  with  the  large  sleeves 
split  and  bound  in  scarlet  velvet  to  show  the 
richly  embroidered  muslin  underbodice.  The 
scheme  of  colour  is  so  gay  and  insistent  that  the 
picture  is  pleasantly  unforgettable.  In  the  same 
room  hangs  the  head  of  a  young  white  bull,  by 
Paul  Potter;  as  yet  he  is  only  a  mischievous  and 
sprightly  young  animal  who  has  scarcely  reached 
the  age  of  adolescence,  and  is  quite  pleased  at  a 
delightfully  decorative  wreath  of  roses  and  jessa- 
mine round  his  neck.  When  my  beloved  grand- 
son was  four  years  old  he  and  my  son  were  walk- 
ing through  a  field.  A  surly,  sour-looking,  un- 
decorated  bull  was  in  one  end  of  it. 

"  If  that  bull  attacked  us,  would  you  defend 
me? "  asked  his  father. 

"I  would,"  said  my  grandson;  "but — what 
about  me? " 

I  am  hoping  from  this  pertinent  answer  that 
logic  will  always  be  dominant  in  his  mind. 

George  Moore  admires  and  enthusiastically  ex- 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY       211 

plains  his  admiration  of  Nathaniel  Hone's  "  Sleepy 
Pasture  at  Malahide,"  a  lovely  warm  summer  day, 
of  intense  blue  sky  and  drifting  white  clouds,  with 
cattle  lying  down  in  a  lush  green  field,  too  lazy  to 
get  in  the  shade  of  a  long,  still  wood  in  the  back- 
ground. "  The  Piping  Boy,"  like  a  little  Pan, 
with  his  flute  and  fur  mantle,  is  the  son  of  an 
earlier  Nathaniel  Hone  who  died  in  1784,  a  por- 
trait painter  of  Dublin  who  did  much  brilliant 
work,  but  nothing  better  than  this  bright-eyed, 
eager  boy.  Another  picture  which  arouses  the 
enthusiasm  and  eloquence  of  George  Moore — 
and  he  has  floods  of  it  at  his  disposal — is  Millais' 
large  canvas  of  "  The  Three  Sisters."  And  as- 
suredly it  stamps  him  as  a  genius,  this  page  from 
the  life  of  the  handsome,  comfortable,  leisurely, 
fashionable  Englishwoman  of  the  sixties.  The 
background  is  ablaze  with  flowers,  the  furniture 
is  fine,  and  the  young  ladies  seated  at  a  card-table 
are  elaborately  coiffed,  and  more  elaborately 
dressed — all  alike — as  was  then  the  fashion  among 
sisters.  The  faces  of  the  two  ladies  looking  up 
are  reserved  and  somewhat  expressionless,  as  was 
the  mode  of  the  well-bred  young  woman  of  the 
day.  The  one  who  looks  down  at  her  cards  might, 
if  she  looked  up,  have  "  a  mutinous  smile."  With 
the  change  of  fashion  comes  a  change  of  smiles. 
Girls  of  the  present  day  "  smile  daringly."  Crino- 
lines required  demureness,  and  there  never  were 


212  HERSELF— IRELAND 

such  wide-spreading,  willowy,  billowy  crinolines 
as  the  three  sisters  wear.  They  surge  together 
under  the  table  like  sea  waves  at  high  tide.  And 
the  dresses  of  dove-grey  silk,  draped  in  a  thousand 
folds,  and  looped  with  deep  rose-coloured  ribands, 
were  evidently  the  chef  d'oeuvre  of  "  a  Court  dress- 
maker "  who  lived  in  Hanover  Square.  It  would 
interest  me  to  know  just  how  many  yards  of  silk 
were  used  to  clothe  and  drape  those  tall  young 
women.  I  am  like  Father  Healy,  who  asked  an 
Evangelical  tailor,  firm  in  the  belief  that  no 
Catholic  read  the  Bible,  how  many  yards  it 
would  have  taken  to  make  a  pair  of  breeches 
for  the  big  angel  of  the  Resurrection,  who 
stood  with  one  foot  on  sea  and  the  other  on 
land. 

A  young  woman  of  undoubted  good  looks  was 
making  an  excellent  copy  of  Jan  Steen's  "  Village 
School."  We  had  some  talk  together,  and  she  said 
it  was  a  man's  picture,  as  they  so  often  stopped 
to  look  at  it.  Only  her  candid,  innocent  eyes  kept 
me  from  smiling.  Is  there  anything  so  attractive 
as  perfect  unself -consciousness?  I  am  going  back 
before  the  picture  is  finished,  for  she  looks  so  like 
one  I  knew  and  loved;  so  sweet,  gay  and  witty,  a 
painter,  too,  who  died  too  young  to  make  a  name. 
As  I  look  at  my  catalogue,  I  see  it  was  published 
in  1914,  when  Sir  Hugh  Lane  was  director  of 
the  Gallery.  What  a  tragedy  his  death  has  been, 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY      213 

not  alone  a  loss  to  Ireland,  but  to  the  whole  world. 
His  ambitions  were  exalted,  but  with  his  strong 
will  and  power  of  self-sacrifice,  he  could  have  car- 
ried them  out.  He  had  a  steady  goal  to  reach, 
and  neither  extravagance  nor  self-indulgence 
would  have  made  him  loiter  by  the  way.  He  in- 
tended making  the  National  Gallery  in  Dublin 
one  of  the  first  galleries  in  Europe,  and  the  first 
stones  were  laid  with  II  Greco's  great  Francis 
of  Assisi,  and  the  splendid  portrait  of  a  lady 
dressed  in  rich  red  and  gold  brocade,  by 
Veronese. 

The  Gallery  with  its  already  fine  collection  and 
his  additions  would  have  attracted  visitors  from 
all  nations,  and  their  pilgrimage,  extended  to  other 
parts  of  Ireland,  would  have  added  material  bene- 
fit to  the  country. 

The  pity  of  his  death!  And  yet  the  vital  influ- 
ence of  Hugh  Lane  can  never  die,  but  will  ever 
abide  to  incite  men  to  generous  deeds  and  kindlier 
actions. 

There  is  no  place  in  Ireland  that  seems  to  me 
more  historically  interesting  than  Trinity  College, 
with  its  traditions,  its  atmosphere,  and  its  impos- 
ing appearance.  The  courts,  which  are  equally 
beautiful  in  the  grey  days  of  winter,  or  with  their 
noble  outlines  more  defined  by  the  clear  skies  of 
summer.  The  students,  crossing  and  re-crossing 
the  square,  each  man  wearing  his  gown  with  a 


214  HERSELF— IRELAND 

characteristic  difference — jauntiness,  studiousness, 
carelessness,  carefulness,  gracefulness,  awkward- 
ness, courage,  and  shyness,  a  respect  for  habiliment, 
and  an  utter  indifference  to  it  are  all  expressed  by 
the  manner  in  which  men  wear  their  gowns.  The 
long,  oak  dining-hall,  with  portraits  of  great  men 
who  have  shed  additional  lustre  on  old  Trinity  by 
their  honourable  careers.  In  one  corner  the  little 
pulpit  from  which  Dean  Swift  preached  his  ser- 
mons is  now  used  by  the  Senior  Scholar  to  say 
grace  before  dinner.  The  theatre,  so  fine  in  pro- 
portion, and  such  a  pure  and  beautiful  example 
of  Adam  decoration,  and  the  splendid  library — 
the  long,  lovely  Queen  Anne  Room  with  its  pun- 
gent leathery  odour  from  books  upstairs  and  books 
downstairs.  Books  on  shelves  standing  away  from 
the  walls.  Books  on  shelves  that  are  on  the  walls. 
Books  on  screens.  Books  in  cases  which  can  be 
seen  through  glass.  Books  so  precious  that  not 
only  glass  but  curtains  protect  them.  Books  little 
and  books  big,  books  old  and  books  new,  three 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  in  number,  and  yet 
people — mea  culpa — continue  to  write  them.  To 
vary  the  monotony  there  are  other  treasures,  the 
stoutly  built  Irish  Harp  of  Brian  Boru,  the  veri- 
table, the  well  authenticated  "  Harp  that  once 
through  Tara's  halls  the  soul  of  music  shed  " — 
but  no  longer  on  Tara's  walls — after  many  vicissi- 
tudes is  carefully  preserved  in  a  glass  case  and 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY      215 

pointed  out  to  visitors  as,  "  'is  'arp  'and  with 
hevidence  that  none  can  ginesay." 

"  From  what  part  of  London  do  you  come? "  I 
asked. 

"  Battersea,  Lidy,  that  was  me  'ome  but  hi've 
lived  in  h'Ireland  thirty  years." 

And  not  even  Brian  Boru  has  made  any  im- 
pression on  his  accent.  Heaven  send  that  we  may 
not  be  in  for  a  thirty  years'  war.  Cockneys  have 
risen  in  my  estimation  since  Irish  soldiers  declare 
them  to  be  among  the  best  fighters  at  the 
front. 

Among  other  treasures  of  Trinity  is  the  largest 
gold  fibula  ever  discovered;  eight  inches  long, 
and  of  great  weight,  it  must  have  been  worn  by 
a  dressy  Irish  giant.  But,  after  all,  the  most 
wonderful  of  Trinity's  treasures  is  "  The  most 
beautiful  book  in  the  world."  When  I  knew  that 
I  was  actually  to  have  the  curtain  drawn  aside,, 
the  case  unlocked,  and  to  hold  the  Book  of  Kells 
in  my  hands  I  set  about  making  a  ritual  of  the 
occasion.  My  finger-nails  had  never  been  profes- 
sionally manicured,  that  should  be  done;  the  most 
expensive  savon  de  parme  procurable  in  Dublin 
should  be  used  with  the  lovely  Dublin  water  to 
wash  them,  and  they  should  be  covered  with  fair 
white  gloves ;  for  surely  this  one  Book  of  the  World 
deserved  much  honour.  The  reasons  of  its  being 
the  Book  of  Books  are  Inspiration — Design — 


216  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Colour — and  Execution.  The  original  and  fruitful 
designs  embody  much  that  is  used  in  Celtic  art. 
The  graceful  trumpet  pattern.  The  ingeniously 
interlaced  curved  bands,  the  intricate  knot  design 
formed  of  eight  lines,  and  quaint  patterns  derived 
from  angels,  men,  birds,  blossoms,  flowers,  foliage, 
fish,  reptiles,  serpents,  and  monstrous  and  imagina- 
tive animals.  All  these  illuminate  and  illustrate 
the  Four  Gospels.  The  first  thing  that  strikes  the 
eye  is  the  daring  combination  and  jewel-like  depth 
of  colour.  Black,  blue,  green,  yellow,  purple,  sky- 
blue,  dull  green,  and  lilac  jostle  each  other,  form 
vivid  contrasts,  and  yet  seem  to  melt  into  a  har- 
monious whole,  while  the  absence  of  gold,  glitter- 
ing in  other  missals,  is  never  felt.  The  steadiness 
of  the  hands  who  made  these  unrivalled  wonders 
was  so  unerring  the  design  might  almost  have 
been  cut  out  of  copper,  filled  in  with  colour,  and 
transferred  to  the  vellum,  for  there  is  no  slight- 
est deviation  in  these  numerous  intricate  and  deli- 
cate lines,  and  the  sureness  of  touch  is  almost 
superhuman.  Well  might  Gerald  Plunket  write 
of  this  treasure,  "  This  work  doth  passe  all  men's 
coyning,  that  now  doth  live  in  any  place  I  doubt 
not  anything  but  that  ye  writer  hath  obtained 
God's  grace."  And,  indeed,  the  book  seems  not 
only  to  have  been  written  and  illuminated  by  one 
who  obtained  God's  grace,  but  to  have  received 
Divine  protection  in  escaping  destruction  and 


THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOL 
By  Jan  Steen 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY      217 

mutilation  during  the  unending  incursions  and  pil- 
lage of  many  centuries.  This  famous  manuscript 
was  the  property  of  the  last  Abbot  of  Kells,  Rich- 
ard Plunket,  who  surrendered  the  monastery  to  the 
Crown  in  1539.  Shortly  after  that  date  Gerald 
Plunket  was  evidently  guardian  of  the  book. 
Bishop  Usher  acquired  it  in  1621,  and  after  his 
death  it  was  transferred  to  the  University  Library, 
Trinity  College. 

Besides  the  most  elaborate  caligraphy  ever  pro- 
duced, there  are  Charters  in  the  Irish  language 
giving  grants  of  land  from  King  Melaghlin  of 
Meath  to  the  Abbey  of  Kells,  between  A.D.  1024 
and  the  twelfth  century.  They  are  of  special 
interest,  being  the  only  deeds  in  the  Irish  lan- 
guage dating  from  before  the  Norman  Invasion. 
Sad  to  relate,  even  this  precious  book,  after  escap- 
ing the  Norseman  and  Dane,  has  suffered  from 
an  iconoclast  of  a  bookbinder,  who  about  a  hun- 
dred years  ago  actually  "  trimmed  "  many  of  the 
beautiful  margins  out  of  existence,  cutting  the 
priceless  leaves  of  vellum  ornamented  with  rare 
and  unique  embellishments  to  a  conventional  size. 
Knowledgeable  authorities  all  differ  as  to  whether 
the  book  belongs  to  the  sixth  or  the  ninth  century, 
and  neither  the  particular  version  of  the  scriptures, 
orthography,  pigments,  ink,  or  wonderful  illus- 
trations have  decided  the  vexed  question.  But, 
except  to  a  few  scholars  who  devote  themselves  to 


218  HERSELF— IRELAND 

these  subjects,  what  does  it  matter?  Among  the 
missing  leaves,  one  of  them  probably  contained  the 
name  of  the  incomparable  artist,  who  is  now  only 
known  as  "  The  Great  Man."  His  work  and  pages 
surpassing  all  the  rest  are  of  supreme  value,  and 
even  the  loss  of  the  colophon  has  its  advantages 
as  it  gives  the  imagination  full  play. 

I  have  made  for  myself  the  picture  of  a  young 
monk  with  a  noble  head,  his  black  hair  grows  on  a 
peak  on  his  forehead,  his  face  is  lean  with  aquiline 
features,  his  spiritual  eyes  are  deeply  blue,  he  has 
the  smile  of  a  boy  sweetening  his  stern  lips,  and 
even  with  his  extreme  youth  there  is  a  look  on  his 
face  of  quiet,  determined  patience.  The  patience 
of  one  who  loves  his  work.  He  wears  a  white 
wool  habit,  girded  about  the  waist  with  a  cord  of 
emerald  green,  and  he  sits  in  the  monastery  by  a 
great  window  opening  very  wide,  looking  towards 
the  fair  hills  of  Ireland.  When  he  dips  his  brush 
on  his  palette  piled  with  rich  colours — malachite, 
lapis  lazuli,  velvet  black,  purple,  orange,  or  sky- 
blue — and  begins  to  paint,  the  strokes  are  so 
precise,  so  fine,  so  delicate,  so  daring,  and  yet  so 
marvellously  sure,  the  work  seems  almost  super- 
human. His  hands  are  a  strange  combination  of 
the  artist  and  the  athlete,  possessing  both  muscu- 
lar strength  and  suppleness.  He  is  apart  from 
other  men,  this  beautiful  boy;  almost  a  demi-god. 
Perhaps  his  food  is  brought  to  him,  as  it  was  to 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY       219 

Buddha,  by  a  happy  mother  whose  sweet  voice 
tells  him  it  is: 

"  The  milk  of  a  hundred  mothers,  newly  calved. 
And  with  that  milk  I  fed  fifty  white  cows, 
And  with  their  milk  twenty-five,  and  then 
With  theirs  twelve  more,  and  yet  again  with  theirs 
The  six  noblest  and  best  of  all  our  herds." 

And  nourished  upon  the  poetry  of  curds  and 
cream,  that  is  how  The  Great  Man  wrote  the 
Great  Book  of  Kells. 

It  remains  even  to-day  an  inexhaustible  inspi- 
ration. And  designs  suggested  by  it  are  found 
on  the  covers  of  books  in  every  library  in  the 
world.  I  saw  it  taken  downstairs  for  the  night, 
and  placed  in  a  strong  iron  safe.  And  by  walk- 
ing quickly  reached  the  Shelbourne  in  time  for 
tea  with  Captain  Miracle,  a  trench  mortar  man 
who  has  earned  his  title,  brave  lad,  by  being  blown 
up  forty  feet  in  the  air  and  coming  down  alive 
two  fields  distant  from  where  he  unconsciously 
started.  The  men  on  either  side  of  him  were  blown 
to  atoms;  such  are  the  accidents  of  war. 

"  Where  have  you  been  all  day?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  Trinity  College,"  and  then  I  told  him  of 
my  little  ritual,  and  he  said,  "  Madam,  allow  a 
Trinity  man  to  thank  you.  I  spent  all  my  youth 
at  Old  Trinity." 

"  Your  youth!    How  old  are  you  now?  " 


220  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"All  of  twenty-three,  and  maybe  twenty-four 
and  maybe  not.  I  go  back  to  France  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  looking  at  his  boyish  face,  and 
a  dimple  that  appeared  and  disappeared  in  his 
cheek,  "  how  sorry  your  mother  must  be  to  have 
you  go  back." 

"  She  is,"  he  said;  "  so  is  my  father,  particularly 
as  I  am  an  only  son,  but  I've  always  taken 
chances " 

"I  can  see  that,"  I  said;  "your  coat  with  its 
devices  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  map  of  the 
War." 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  Beginning  with  the  Royal 
Dublin  Fusiliers,  there's  a  lot  of  things  on  it." 

"  What's  this,  a  D.S.O.?" 

"  Yes,  that's  it,  in  spite  of  our  fellows  threaten- 
ing to  kill  me,"  he  said,  laughing.  "  You  see  a 
trench  mortar  man  is  not  popular.  He  sends  off 
a  mortar,  the  Germans  instantly  retaliate  with 
another,  which  deals  death  and  destruction.  Our 
men,  when  they  see  me  coming,  say,  *  If  you  don't 
take  that  damned  thing  away,  we'll  shoot  you/  " 

"  And  what  do  you  do  then? " 

"  Sometimes  I  move  on  and  give  the  boys  a 
chance,"  he  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  Per- 
sonally I  think  condensed  milk  and  army  grub  are 
worse  than  bombs.  Especially  the  milk.  After  a 
week  of  it,  I  don't  care  whether  I  live  or  die,  and 
you  can  take  it  from  me  that  many  a  man  has  won 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY      221 

the  Victoria  Cross  from  the  desperation  engen- 
dered in  his  soul  by  condensed  milk." 

How  often  since  that  gay,  young,  debonair, 
devil-may-care,  happy  warrior  went  away  I've 
thought  of  him.  And  sometimes — for  I  am  the 
mother  of  an  only  son — I've  prayed  for  him. 

One  can  spend  days  in  Trinity;  it  stirs  the 
imagination.  But,  after  all,  the  pride  and  glory 
of  Dublin  is  her  splendid  Park.  When  the  haw- 
thorn is  in  bloom,  and  nearly  two  thousand  acres 
of  trees  white,  pink,  rose,  and  red  are  ablaze  with 
myriads  of  sweet  flowers,  then  Phoenix  Park  is  as 
beautiful  as  cherry  blossom  time  in  Japan.  Each 
tree  becomes  a  giant  bouquet,  vying  with  its  next 
door  neighbour  in  extravagant  loveliness.  The 
air  is  sweet  with  perfume,  and  the  emerald  green 
grass  is  brilliant  in  patches  of  colour  from  the 
fallen  leaves.  Its  historical  interest:  the  Fifteen 
Acres — an  Irishism  as  they  are  really  two  hundred 
acres — where  famous  duels  were  fought,  the  Vice- 
regal Lodge,  the  Wellington  Memorial,  the  Maga- 
zine Fort,  even  the  "  Furry  Glen,"  a  golden,  gorse- 
clad  hollow  earlier  in  the  year,  with  its  deep  pool, 
sink  into  insignificance  in  this  lovely  kingdom  of 
Flora.  For  the  finest  of  man's  deeds  are  as  noth- 
ing when  nature  makes  a  supreme  effort,  as  she 
does  when  hawthorn  blooms  in  June. 

When  there  was  a  lull  in  my  sight-seeing  and 
I  began  to  be  lonely,  Kitty  and  her  trousseau 


222  HERSELF— IRELAND 

arrived  from  London.  It  was  not  a  wedding  but 
an  "  on  leave  "  trousseau,  prepared  to  dazzle  the 
eyes  of  William  when  he  came  from  the  front. 
William  is  Kitty's  fascinating,  inconsequent,  en- 
thusiastic, optimistic,  Australian  husband  of  Irish 
descent,  and  my  friend,  but  he  had  not  got  his 
leave.  So  Kitty  gave  her  fetching  frocks  an  air- 
ing for  my  benefit.  Nature  has  been  kind  in  giv- 
ing her  a  slim  figure,  a  pretty  face,  and  what  is 
of  greater  value  even  than  beauty,  individuality. 
Her  hair,  eyes,  and  eye-lashes  are  velvet  black ;  her 
skin  is  cream  white,  and  she  has  a  little  impudent 
nose  which  contradicts  the  softness  of  her  eyes. 
Her  voice  is  soft,  too.  And  she  gives  the  impres- 
sion of  helplessness  and  leisure,  but  contrariwise 
is  capable  and  industrious,  being  an  excellent 
cook, — she  learned  her  art  in  France. — and  house- 
wife. Since  the  war  began  she  has  been  a  faithful 
V.A.D.  doing  any  jobs  assigned  to  her  willing 
hands,  responsible  for  the  big  dining-room  of  a 
Hospital,  or,  when  necessary,  changing  about  to 
night  nursing.  With  no  leave  for  a  year  I 
thought  she  ought  to  rest,  but  action  rests  the 
young.  An  hour  after  her  arrival  we  were  career- 
ing out  to  Donnybrook  in  a  jaunting-car,  and  she 
was  using  her  patriotic,  persuasive  powers  to  get 
the  strong  young  jarvey  to  enlist.  He  told  her  that 
he  could  not  fight  for  England,  that  her  English 
heart  could  not  understand  his  Irish  heart. 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY       223 

"But,"  she  said,  "I  gave  my  heart  to  an 
Irishman  when  I  married  him.  He's  in 
France  now,  in  the  Great  Push,  fighting  for 
his  country." 

"  He  may  be  that,  he  may  be  one  of  thim  Irish- 
men— God  help  thim — with  two  countries.  As  for 
me,  I've  only  got  wun;  that's  Ireland,  and  here  I 
stay  wid  her." 

"  Even  so,"  said  Kitty.  "  You  are  not  a  Sinn 
Feiner,  are  you? " 

"  I  will  show  you,  Lady,"  said  the  young  man, 
and  turning  back  his  coat,  we  saw  that  he  wore 
the  badge  of  green,  yellow,  and  white  on  his 
breast. 

"  Oh,  dear,"  said  Kitty  when  we  went  to  our 
rooms  to  dress  for  dinner ;  "  and  I  thought  I  could 
do  some  recruiting  over  here." 

"  Wait,"  I  said,  "  until  we  get  into  the  country, 
perhaps  you  will  have  better  luck  there,  though  I 
fear  not;  it's  too  soon  after  the  rebellion." 

As  the  days  went  on,  Kitty  began  to  be 
anxious  about  William.  She  got  no  letters,  as  he 
may  be  described  as  a  delightful  but  intermittent 
correspondent.  When  a  William  look  appeared 
on  her  face  to  distract  her  attention  I  would  say, 
"  don't  regret  the  black  and  white  lace  gown," — 
sometimes  her  conscience  gave  her  pricks — "you 
can  always  have  it  made  over,  and  it's  awfully 
becoming." 


224  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"  I  wish  William  would  write,"  Kitty  would 
answer  with  a  sigh.  "  Did  you  see  the  papers  this 
morning;  the  great  push  going  on  and  Billy  in 
the  thick  of  it." 

"  But  you  say  yourself  he's  always  lucky." 
"  He  is,  but  why  doesn't  he  write?  " 
"  He  is  busy  intriguing  about  his  leave." 
Kitty  would  smile.     "And  he'll  get  it;  there's 
nobody  like  Billy;  he  does  whatever  he  undertakes, 
and  he  makes  every  other  man  seem  tame  and 
dull,  but  I  do  wish  he  would  write." 

When  war  was  declared,  William  sailed  for 
Australia,  and  got  a  commission  in  the  Australian 
Field  Artillery.  The  statue  of  his  father,  born 
in  Australia  of  Irish  parentage,  has  not  been 
placed  in  St.  Paul's  without  reason,  as  the  Right 
Hon.  W.  B.  Dalley  was  the  creator  of  the  system 
by  which  Colonial  troops  take  part  in  England's 
wars.  In  1884,  following  on  the  fall  of  Gordon 
at  Khartoum,  he  cabled  an  offer  of  Australian 
troops  to  the  Home  Government.  In  the  interval 
between  the  issue  of  the  offer  and  its  acceptance 
he  was  subjected  to  bitter  criticism  on  the  ground 
that  he  was  wantonly  laying  the  colony  open  to  the 
humiliation  of  a  refusal.  The  conditions  in  those 
days  were  vastly  different  to  those  which  obtain 
now.  A  large  party  in  England  held  the  view 
that  the  colonies  were  an  encumbrance  to  be  got 
rid  of,  and  a  liberal  Government  was  in  power  at 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY       225 

the  time.  Moreover,  Dalley  had  made,  with  Irish 
daring,  the  offer  without  even  consulting  his  col- 
leagues in  the  Ministry.  There  were  proposals 
that  he  should  be  impeached.  But  the  offer  was 
accepted.  A  thrill  of  pride  and  delight  surged 
through  the  country  at  the  knowledge  that  it  was 
to  stand  beside  Britain  in  arms.  Talk  of  im- 
peachment dropped,  the  constitutional  illegality  of 
the  proceeding  was  ignored,  and  Dalley  became  the 
most  popular  man  in  Australia,  and  was  the  first 
Australian  member  of  the  Privy  Council. 

There  was  never  a  more  gallant  spirit  than 
William's.  He  has  enjoyed  every  moment  of  his 
life.  Even  when  luck  has  been  against  him  his 
optimism  has  never  deserted  him.  His  enthusiasms 
are  splendid,  his  appreciations  are  generous,  his 
interest  in  other  people  so  absorbing  that  he  is 
never  unhappy.  He  trusts  fate,  and  considering 
how  often  when  she  has  talked  common  sense  to 
him  he  has  tweaked  her  nose,  she  has  been  good 
to  him.  For  this  reason  he  feels  that  he  is  not 
only  safe  from  the  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
but  even  from  bullets. 

One  morning  Kitty  came  to  my  room  looking 
radiant,  and  instead  of  "  I  wish  Billy  would  write," 
it  was,  "Billy  has  written;  shall  I  read  you  his 
letter? " 

"  Of  course,"  I  said,  laying  down  my  paper, 
which  contained  an  overwhelming  page  of  casual- 


226  HERSELF— IRELAND 

ties.      "  Sit   down   and   read  me   the   longed-for 
letter." 

"  IN  THE  FIELD, 
"  Wednesday  26.7/16. 
"  MY  DARLING, 

"  I  yesterday  got  yours  of  19.7 .'16.  While  I 
remember  it,  will  you  tell  me  if  you  got  my  two 
photographs  by  Lekegian,  of  Cairo? — one  of  them 
displayed  my  beautiful  field  boots.  Also,  will  you 
tell  me  if  you  got  a  small  bunch  of  six  or  eight 
snapshots?  In  one  of  them  I  was  about  to  dive 
into  the  Little  Bitter  Lake  at  Ismalia,  and  there 
was  another  with  some  Turkish  prisoners.  I  sent 
all  these  things  ages  ago  from  Egypt,  but  as  noth- 
ing seems  to  have  got  through  the  post  then  I  fear 
they  were  lost. 

"  I  have  asked  for  leave  from  August  5th,  en- 
closed is  a  copy  of  my  application.  I  may  get  it. 
I  think  rather  more  likely  than  not.  I  have  also 
asked  for  permission  to  have  my  batman  with  me. 
He  is  Gunner  Potts  from  Wagga  Wagga,  and  he 
is  the  most  perfect  thing  in  the  entire  army.  We 
will  all  stop  at  Holland's  in  Half  Moon  Street— 
the  place  Ernest  used  to  have.  That  at  least  is 
my  suggestion,  unless  you  want  to  stay  somewhere 
else,  in  which  case  we  will  go  where  you  like.  You 
talk  of  my  coming  over  to  Dublin,  but  you  don't 
seem  to  realise  the  time  it  would  take,  and  that 
one  watches  every  second  of  one's  leave  as  greedily 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY       227 

as  a  miser  watches  his  gold.  Our  time  is  taken 
from  the  moment  we  leave  Boulogne  (or  Le 
Harve,  as  the  case  may  be),  and  I  shall  be  bitterly 
grudging  every  second  lost  on  the  boat  and  in  the 
train.  Why  can't  you  get  Mrs.  T.  P.  to  come 
over?  We  will  have  a  glorious  week  in  London, 
and  she  would  love  Potts.  All  meals  will  be  at 
the  most  expensive  restaurants,  and  will  consist 
of  the  most  costly  foods  obtainable.  Theatres 
every  night  and  cabs  everywhere.  I  am  craving 
to  see  the  amusing  people  again — Derwent  Wood, 
Augustus  John,  Evelyn,  and  the  rest.  I  see 
Hugh  Wright  is  playing  at  the  Comedy,  by  the 
way. 

"  Talking  of  your  friend  Barry  O'Brien,  I  went 
for  a  ride  yesterday  afternoon  with  the  Padre,  and 
in  a  town  hereabouts,  the  name  of  which  I  may 
not  give,  he  bought  a  book  by  O'Brien — The  Life 
of  Lord  Russell  of  Killowen.  Just  afterwards  I 
got  your  letter,  and  will  show  it  to  the  Padre  when 
next  we  meet.  The  book,  I  believe,  is  quite  a 
famous  one. 

"  I  had  a  glorious  bit  of  shooting  yesterday 
morning — one  of  those  beautifully  finished  pieces 
of  work  that  sometimes  come  off  in  sport  and  that 
one  always  remembers.  The  sort  of  thing  that 
dear  old  E.G.M.  would  have  loved.  Nominally 
I  was  doing  what  is  known  as  '  registering  a 
target,'  but  actually  I  was  conducting  what  in 


228  HERSELF— IRELAND 

the  old  days  would  have  been  known  as  a  heavy 
bombardment.  Thanks  to  the  Daily  Mail's  cam- 
paign and  the  consequent  plethora  of  shell  we  can 
do  this  kind  of  thing  now,  and  thousands  of  lives 
are  thereby  saved.  One  bit  of  trench  that  I  was 
dealing  with  lent  itself  to  enfilade  and — largely 
no  doubt  by  luck,  but  also  partly  by  skill — I  man- 
aged to  land  an  H.E.  (high  explosive)  shell  right 
in  the  trench  itself.  Up  in  the  air  went  great 
masses  of  earth,  timber,  and  sandbags,  and  if 
somebody  wasn't  killed — well,  the  Bosh  wasn't  do- 
ing his  duty.  The  trench  should  have  been  well 
filled,  because  he  had  no  warning  that  it  was  going 
to  be  fired  on.  It  was  simply  a  lucky  shot  which 
had  been  carefully  worked  out  with  pencil  and 
paper  beforehand,  and  that  fact,  plus  the  beau- 
tiful laying  of  the  Australian  gunners,  did  the 
trick. 

"  The  worst  of  gunnery  is  that  you  rarely  see 
the  results  with  your  own  eyes.  In  that  respect  it 
resembles  my  practical  joke  on  Horace  Friend. 
But  in  both  cases  the  results  were  equally  inevi- 
table. As  I  couldn't  actually  see  one  dead  Bosh  I 
didn't  get  the  shell  case  for  you,  but  you  may 
nevertheless  regard  yourself  with  reasonable  certi- 
tude as  the  possessor  of  more  than  one  cadaver. 
The  case  of  the  first  shell  I  fired  I  have  kept  as 
promised,  and  you  shall  have  it  when  I  come  over. 
It  would  make  a  very  good  gong. 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY       229 

"  I  have  heard  some  yarns  of  the  Germans  since 
I  have  been  here — my  knowledge  of  French  plus 
my  natural  taste  for  talking  to  the  peasantry  have 
been  helpful  in  that  respect.  The  Bryce  Commis- 
sion's report  is  only  a  modest  statement  of  the 
awful  facts.  When  the  original  British  Army 
came  through  here  the  German,  if  he  was  able  to 
get  hold  of  a  wounded  British  soldier,  used  to 
bury  him  alive.  I  have  it  from  a  perfectly  re- 
liable old  peasant  woman,  who  is  so  steeped  in 
horrors  that  she  no  longer  detects  sensational- 
ism in  her  story,  and  who  has  seen  the  thing 
done. 

"  One  of  the  most  amusing  things  I  have  heard 
about  them  happened  in  a  little  humpy  in  which 
I  have  been  sleeping  the  last  few  days.  In  this 
place  they  tried  to  bayonet  a  dove,  and  having 
failed  to  spike  him,  one  of  them  took  him  out  of 
his  cage,  and  using  him  as  a  cricket  ball  threw 
him  at  a  tree  trunk.  The  bird  was  removed  in  a 
fainting  condition  by  the  old  woman  who  owns 
him,  and  is  still  alive.  In  fact  he  lives  in  a  cage 
just  over  my  sleeping  valise,  and  makes  night  so 
intermittently  hideous  with  his  croonings,  flirtings, 
and  gurglings,  that  I  often  feel  as  if  I  would  like 
to  have  a  cut  at  him  myself — you  know  perhaps 
that  these  birds  go  on  worst  of  all  at  night.  Well, 
these  Boshes  affected  to  regard  the  absurd  bird  as 
a  carrier  pigeon,  though,  as  the  old  woman  help- 


230  HERSELF— IRELAND 

lessly  observes,  fil  ne  salt  pas  meme  voler,*  which 
is  perfectly  true,  as  the  dove  had  never  heen  out 
of  a  cage  in  its  life.  These  doves  are  all  the  go 
hereabouts — practically  every  jeune  file  has  got 
one,  only  one  and  never  two,  which  is  perhaps  what 
makes  the  birds  so  lonely  and  complaining;  the 
sight  of  them  appears  to  have  lashed  the  Boshes 
to  fury. 

"  I  am  saving  up  all  the  cash  possible  for  a  burst 
in  London,  and  then  you  can  probably  swindle 
me  out  of  all  you  want.  By  the  way,  there  are 
some  things  I  must  buy  there  for  the  winter  fight- 
ing: a  stove,  a  bridle,  a  small  quantity  of  port  wine, 
a  brace  of  wire-haired  fox  terriers,  a  telescope,  etc., 
etc.  Also  I  want  to  get  one  new  uniform  ordered 
the  day  I  land,  as  my  present  ones  are  getting 
shabby.  I  think  I  shall  go  to  Tanty,  as  he  makes 
the  best  breeches  in  the  world. 

"  I  am  sending  this  off  by  means  of  the  Brigade 
Padre,  who  seems  a  reliable  person  to  whom  to 
entrust  a  cheque.  I  can  only  say  do  not  be  anxious 
about  me  for  a  moment.  If  ever  safe  and  reliable 
warfare  existed,  this  is  it.  I  cannot  say  any  more, 
of  course,  but  you  need  not  worry — believe  me  seri- 
ously when  I  say  this.  I  got  a  letter  a  few  days 
ago  from  dear  old  E.  G.  M.  It  was  dated  Febru- 
ary 3rd.  He  said  that  he  thought  we  had  them 
'  held  safely '  here.  As  compared  to  the  actual 
facts,  it  seemed  like  a  joke.  The  wretched  Bosh 


THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY      231 

is  simply  non  est.  He  is,  as  Evelyn  used  to  say, 
*  augespielt.'  No  more  now,  darling,  as  the 
Padre  can't  wait.  I  will  really  try  and  write 
again  to-morrow.  I  am  afraid  I  may  be  unable 
to  get  away  first  week  in  August.  Read  a  beside- 
the-leader  article  in  the  D.M.  of  August  7th,  called 
'  Hefty  Annie.'  It  is  about  a  gun,  and  although 
it  refers  to  a  15-inch,  it  gives  you  some  idea  of 
things  in  a  general  way.  Tell  E.  G.  M.  I  am  com- 
ing over,  and  persuade  dear  little  Mrs.  T.  P.  to 
come  to  London.  No  more,  sweetheart,  except 
best  love  in  all  the  world,  and  do  write  often. 

"From     . 
"  BILL." 

rfflf  ever  safe  and  reliable  warfare  existed 
this  is  it/ 

"  There  speaks  the  unquenchable  optimism  of 
the  Irishman,  and  five  columns  of  casualties  in 
to-day's  paper ! " 

"  That's  William  all  over,  and  do  you  think," 
said  Kitty  anxiously,  "  that  we  will  have  to  take 
Potts  of  Wagga  Wagga  to  the  theatre  with  us? " 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  said;  "  Potts  will  probably  much 
prefer  a  boxing  match,  and  being  '  the  most  unique 
thing  in  the  Army '  doesn't  make  him  eligible 
socially.  Still,  I  am  almost  as  sorry  not  to  meet 
Potts  as  to  miss  William." 

"  I'll  write  and  tell  you  about  him,"  said  Kitty 


232  HERSELF— IRELAND 

gaily.  "  And  now  that  Billy  will  get  his  leave,  I 
think  we  should  really  be  moving  on.  It  would  be 
well  to  see  something  of  Ireland,  wouldn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  we  had  better  leave  Dublin  to- 
morrow for  Cork  and  Killarney." 


CHAPTER  XII 

CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN 

THE  weather  was  so  perfect,  with  its  long  warm 
days  of  sunshine  and  soft  air,  that  we  prolonged 
our  stay  in  Dublin,  and  even  after  we  were  packed 
remained  on,  loath  to  go;  but  finally  on  a  brilliant 
afternoon  we  started  for  Cork. 

Travellers  will  tell  you  everywhere  in  Ireland — 
even  people  who  practise  economy — that  it  is  im- 
possible to  travel  third-class,  but  we  did  not  find  it 
to  be  the  case.  What  it  might  be  in  winter,  with 
the  carriage  windows  all  closed,  I  do  not  know ;  but 
occupants  of  third-class  carriages  are  more  amus- 
ing than  those  who  travel  first-class,  more  natural 
and  communicative.  They  talk  to  each  other,  they 
talk  to  you  with  greater  frankness,  and  present  a 
better  opportunity  of  studying  character. 

We  had  provided  ourselves  with  books,  but  it 
was  not  long  before  a  pleasant  faced  young  man 
in  Irish  tweed  and  a  gay  necktie  handed  me  the 
evening  paper  and  began  a  conversation.  He  was 
a  commercial  traveller,  and  I  am  sure  is  worth  his 
weight  in  gold  to  his  firm,  for  never  in  the  whole 
course  of  my  life  have  I  seen  such  tremendous 
unself -conscious  confidence.  He  had  no  more  idea 


234  HERSELF— IRELAND 

of  class  distinction  than  a  kangaroo.  I  take  it  that 
to  those  hopsome  creatures  a  duke  or  a  dustman 
are  alike.  At  first  the  conversation  was  general 
between  Kitty,  the  young  man,  and  myself,  and  it 
concerned  hotels.  His  manner  was  just  as  free, 
and  he  was  quite  as  much  at  ease,  and  as  full  of 
personal  questions,  as  if  I  had  been  Mrs.  Moriarty 
who  kept  a  little  vegetable  shop  in  Camden  Street, 
and  pretty,  well-dressed  Kitty  my  assistant.  He 
asked  our  names,  our  nationalities,  our  religion,  our 
occupations,  our  experiences  in  the  past  and  plans 
for  the  future,  what  we  paid  at  the  Shelbourne 
Hotel  for  our  rooms,  what  they  furnished  us  with 
for  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper,  to  what  hotel 
we  were  going  in  Cork,  and  he  strongly  recom- 
mended another  for  one-third  of  the  price  of  the 
Imperial.  He  gave  us  as  an  example  of  economy 
a  week  of  his  life  in  London,  where  at  one 
time,  when  he  was  hard  up,  he  had  lived  on  five 
shillings. 

His  questions  reminded  me  of  the  paper  served 
to  aliens  on  their  way  to  America.  Though  an 
American  of  many  generations — my  ancestors 
fought  in  the  war  of  Independence — having  mar- 
ried out  of  my  country,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  I 
am  an  alien.  Crossing  very  often  I  have  answered 
these  questions  until  they  have  become  boring  and 
monotonous.  My  last  voyage  I  neglected  the 
paper  until  the  purser  came  to  my  stateroom  and 


CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN        235 

said,  "  I  must  beg  of  you  to  answer  these  ques- 
tions." 

"  I  am  not  well  enough,"  I  said ;  "  will  you 
kindly  answer  them? " 

"  But  I  do  not  know  your  age?  " 

"You  can  politely  guess  at  it,"  I  said,  and 
nothing  could  have  been  more  polite  than  his 
reckoning. 

"  What  is  your  height? "  was  his  next  ques- 
tion. 

"  I  have  been,"  I  said,  "  five  feet  three,  but  since 
the  day  before  yesterday,  when  Crippen  was  exe- 
cuted and  described  as  that  height,  I  have  changed 
to  five  feet  four." 

"  And  your  complexion?  " 

"  Aquamarine.  As  the  darkies  say,  I  have  been 
'  Splimmy  Splammy '  ever  since  we  left  the  dock 
at  Tilbury." 

The  purser  gave  up  in  despair,  went  off  with  the 
paper,  and  filled  it  up  with  proper  respect  to  Gov- 
ernment rule. 

This  young  man's  questions  were  much  of  the 
same  order;  by  the  time  we  reached  Cork  he  could 
have  supplied  a  very  intelligent  descriptive  paper 
of  Kitty  and  myself  to  the  authorities  there. 
Finally,  Kitty  buried  herself  persistently  in  a 
book,  and  he  was  left  entirely  to  my  tender  mercies. 
I  think  I  bore  with  him  on  account  of  his  generous 
smile,  and  strong,  even,  white  teeth.  Good  teeth 


236  HERSELF— IRELAND 

are  always  a  recommendation  to  my  favour.  I 
remember  years  ago  at  the  time  of  a  general 
election  I  warmly  recommended  to  Mr.  Par- 
nell  two  young  Irishmen  for  important  con- 
stituencies. 

He  turned  gravely  to  Justin  McCarthy  and  said, 
"  What  especial  qualification  have  these  two  gen- 
tlemen for  Parliament? " 

"  None,"  said  Justin,  "  that  I  know  of,  except 
they  both  have  very  fine  sets  of  teeth." 

And  remembering  strangely  assorted,  middle- 
aged  Parliamentary  teeth,  my  recommendation 
was  not  at  all  a  bad  one. 

My  young  friend  of  the  teeth  asked  a  thousand 
questions  about  America,  and  I  strongly  advised 
him  to  go  there  without  delay.  In  all  my  travels 
I  have  never  met  any  one  so  eminently  suited  to 
my  democratic  country.  He  will  need  no  introduc- 
tions. He  can  never  be  snubbed.  His  genuine 
interest  would  penetrate  the  strongest  reserve. 
His  good  humour  is  imperturbable.  And  his 
smile  will  disarm  the  grumpiest  pessimist  that  ever 
lived. 

We  stopped  at  a  wayside  station,  and  Kitty 
had  barely  ejaculated,  "  I  have  had  enough  of  that 
young  man,"  when  he  appeared  with  his  confident 
smile,  and  a  tray  which  bore  two  steaming  cups 
of  hot  tea,  and  plates  of  cake  and  bread  and 
butter. 


CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN       237 

"  Here's  some  refreshment  for  you,  ladies,"  he 
said. 

Then  Kitty  forgave  him  for  putting  her  through 
the  third  degree,  and  I  was  really  quite  sorry  when 
the  time  came  to  say  good-bye. 

It  gave  me  a  thrill  to  hear  the  porter  call  out 
"  Cork!  "  for  what  place  in  the  world  is  more  asso- 
ciated with  song  and  story?  It  was  too  late  to 
do  anything  but  go  at  once  to  the  hotel  and  dine. 
The  dinner  was  excellent,  and  the  strawberries 
were  in  perfection.  The  south  of  Ireland  must  be 
particularly  suited  to  the  growth  of  fruit.  The 
waiter  was  a  tall,  thin  man  with  a  finely  modelled 
ascetic  face,  not  unlike  Sir  Forbes  Robertson.  He 
told  us  he  had  spent  all  his  life  in  Killarney,  but 
had  been  forced  by  the  war  to  come  to  Cork  as 
many  of  the  hotels  were  closed,  and  that  Southern 
Ireland  was  almost  destitute  of  visitors.  He  had 
left  his  wife  and  eight  children  behind  him,  and 
as  soon  as  travel  began  he  would  return.  We 
afterwards  went  to  the  hotel  in  Killarney  where 
he  had  been  employed  for  many  years,  and  they 
told  us  there  he  was  one  of  the  most  notorious  and 
daring  poachers  in  the  country,  having  been  ar- 
rested several  times.  Anything  more  unlike  a 
preconceived  idea  of  a  poacher  than  this  refined, 
gentlemanly  looking,  soft-voiced,  deferential  waiter 
it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine.  He  was  also  a 
famous  dancer,  and  in  the  winter  time  had  a 


238  HERSELF— IRELAND 

class  for  teaching  children  the  old  Irish  folk 
dances. 

About  nine  o'clock  there  was  a  rush  of  hurried 
footsteps  on  the  street,  and  cries  of  "  Up  with 
the  rebels !  Up  with  the  rebels !  "  but  nothing 
further  occurred.  Cork  is  indeed  unafraid  to  call 
herself  a  rebel  city.  In  the  centre  of  the  town 
we  had  passed  a  large  monument  called  the  Mar- 
tyrs' Memorial.  It  is  erected  to  the  three  Fenian 
prisoners  whose  execution  aroused  the  sympathy 
of  the  whole  civilised  world,  including  many  Eng- 
lishmen. Allen,  Larkin,  and  O'Brien  were  Cork 
men  who  stopped  a  prison  van  and  rescued  two 
leaders  of  the  Fenian  movement,  and  though 
weighted  with  chains  they  got  away  and  sailed 
for  America.  But  by  mischance  a  police  sergeant 
who  was  in  the  inside  of  the  van  was  shot.  The 
whole  country  at  the  moment  was  at  fever  heat; 
five  men  were  sentenced  to  be  hanged,  and  others 
condemned  to  penal  servitude.  Even  a  man  who 
was  merely  looking  on  at  the  fray  was  sentenced 
by  an  outraged  judge  and  jury  to  be  hanged; 
luckily  the  sentence  was  rescinded  before  the  exe- 
cution took  place. 

Captain  Edward  O'Meagher  Condon,  an 
American  citizen  and  an  ex-officer  of  the  Civil 
War,  would  have  been  executed  but  for  the  pro- 
tection of  the  United  States.  On  his  reprieve  he 
returned  to  America,  and  I  met  him  several  times 


CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN       239 

in  New  York.  He  seemed  a  quiet,  cultivated 
gentleman,  and  for  a  long  time  I  knew  nothing  of 
his  sensational  career.  It  was  Captain  Condon 
who,  when  his  comrades  were  hanged,  sobbed  out 
in  tones  of  deep  tragedy,  "  God  save  Ireland! 
God  save  Ireland !  "  The  crowd  mechanically  re- 
peated the  words,  and  finally  they  became  the 
slogan  of  the  Irish  Nationalists.  The  words  in- 
spired T.  D.  Sullivan  to  write  the  song  "  God 
Save  Ireland,"  which  is  now  set  to  music  and  sung 
all  over  the  world.  It  is  played  as  a  march  by 
Irish  bands,  and  many  brave  Irishmen  have  fought 
and  died  for  England,  inspired  by  the  strains  of 
that  martial  air. 

The  next  morning  was  one  of  glorious  sunshine, 
so  I  suggested  to  Kitty  that  as  Queenstown  was 
always  described  as  a  depressing  place,  to  see  it  in 
pleasant  weather  would  be  advisable,  therefore  we 
had  better  take  an  early  train  and  come  back  by 
boat.  The  distance  is  so  very  short  that  Cork  and 
Queenstown  are  practically  the  same  place. 

The  Lord  Mayor  of  Cork  is  Admiral  of  Queens- 
town,  and  there  is  an  old  and  picturesque  custom 
connected  with  his  office.  Once  in  three  years  he 
sails  to  Queenstown,  and  when  the  boat  anchors 
near  the  headlands,  he  flings  a  dart  far,  far  out 
to  sea.  This  proclaims  his  Admiralty. 

When  we  arrived  the  Cathedral's  new  chime  of 
bells  were  ringing  silvery  peals,  and  we  stepped 


240  HERSELF— IRELAND 

proudly  to  "  Let  Erin  Remember,"  and  more 
sedately  to  "  The  Harp  that  Once  Thro'  Tara's 
Halls."  "  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer  "  sounded 
sweet  high  above  our  heads,  and  when  we  entered 
the  Cathedral,  Gounod's  "  Ave  Maria  "  helped  us 
to  a  reverent  frame  of  mind. 

God  is  never  lonely  in  Ireland.  He  is  never 
neglected.  Here  abides  His  Kingdom,  and  His 
subjects  are  ever  in  communion  with  Him.  From 
early  morning,  when  the  portals  of  the  churches 
are  opened,  until  late  evening,  the  people  kneel, 
and  with  full  confidence,  pour  out  their  hearts  to 
Him.  Joy,  sorrow,  success,  defeat,  doubt,  despair, 
or  victory  are  all  laid  at  His  feet.  God  is  not  only 
to  be  worshipped  as  a  Divine  Being,  He  is  loved 
and  appealed  to  as  a  Father,  and  trusted  as  a 
wise  and  helpful  Friend.  And  if  there  are  any 
latter-day  saints,  they  are  to  be  found  in  Ireland. 
While  the  subjects  of  the  King,  poor,  cold,  hun- 
gry, broken-hearted,  and  despairing,  with  blanched 
lips  can  whisper,  "  Thy  will  be  done,"  it  is  not 
difficult  to  believe  in  the  beatification  of  the  human 
being  of  to-day. 

It  was  almost  midday  and  yet  there  were  a  num- 
ber of  people  scattered  over  the  church  lost  in 
prayer,  and  we  saw  a  small,  dark,  rough  head  pass 
by,  as  a  very  small  boy,  not  more  than  five,  found 
his  way  to  the  High  Altar.  He  made  the  sign 
of  the  Cross,  remained  for  a  time  saying  his  inno- 


HARPISCHORD,  MAHOGANY,  WITH  ORNAMENTAL 
BRASS  MOUNTINGS 

By  Ferdinand  Weber,  Dublin.  The  property  of  Robert  W.  Smythe,  Esq. 


CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN       241 

cent  prayers,  then  turned  and  smiled.  I  think  he 
knew  that  we  were  strangers,  and  it  was  a  little 
smile  of  welcome. 

After  seeing  the  Cathedral,  a  triumph  of  Pu- 
gin's  architecture,  we  walked  down  the  hill  to  the 
Place  of  Embarkation,  where  millions  of  Ireland's 
people  have  sailed  for  different  ports.  England 
reproaches  Ireland  with  a  long  memory,  but  how 
can  any  country  forget  "  State-aided  Emigration," 
when  Great  Britain  offered  five  pounds  a  man  to 
banish  her  Irish  subjects.  And  it  was  even  worse 
after  the  famine,  when  thousands  of  poor  peasants 
were  transplanted  to  a  land  which  required  the 
unbreakable  spirit  of  the  pioneer  to  wrest  from 
it  any  success.  Many  of  them  had  never  seen  a 
town  of  even  nine  thousand  inhabitants.  Some  of 
them  only  spoke  Gaelic.  A  good  many  of  them 
could  not  read.  They  were  simple,  primitive,  agri- 
cultural tillers  of  the  soil.  What  could  they  find 
to  do  in  New  York,  Montreal,  or  London,  with 
no  money  beyond  the  price  of  their  passage? 
Herded  together  in  the  lowest  quarters  of  the  big 
towns,  they  were  like  lost  sheep,  and  as  easily  influ- 
enced as  children,  their  sweet,  simple,  kind,  and 
generous  natures  were  transformed  and  contami- 
nated by  vicious  associations.  It  was  not  long 
before  they  were  contemptuously  spoken  of  as 
"  the  low  Irish."  In  new,  hurried,  busy  countries, 
where  every  man  is  for  himself,  the  cause  of  their 


242  HERSELF— IRELAND 

tragic  downfall  was  never  considered.  These  poor 
aliens  no  longer  prayed  that: 

"  The  merciful  Word. 
The  singing  word. 
And  the  good  Word. 

Be  for  evermore  the  only  heritage  of  men  and  women  of 
Erin." 

They  were  far  from  the  land  of  their  birth,  sepa- 
rated from  her  for  ever,  and  many  of  them  were 
rendered  desperate  by  despair.  Mr.  Labouchere — 
could  he  have  been  a  relation  of  my  friend  Labby, 
who  was  always  a  loyal  friend  to  the  Irish — plead 
their  cause  in  the  House  of  Commons  as  early  as 
1848,  and  called  the  attention  of  England  to  their 
horrible  condition,  and  unfitness  for  transportation. 
Carrying  the  plague  with  them,  they  died  by  thou- 
sands, both  on  board  the  ship  and  after  their 
arrival.  On  the  long  voyage  many  families  were 
swept  out  of  existence.  Children  arrived  without 
fathers  and  mothers,  and  numerous  little  babies 
whose  names  were  unknown  were  handed  over  to 
the  authorities.  Altogether,  seventeen  thousand  of 
these  poor  emigrants  perished  in  this  dreadful 
exodus.  Since  then  emigration  has  never  ceased, 
until  now  the  whole  of  Ireland  has  a  trans-Atlantic 
mind,  and  after  the  War,  again  Ireland's  sons  and 
daughters  will  sail  to  new  and  freer  lands. 

There  is  no  lovelier  spot  than  Queenstown;  it  is 


CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN       243 

beautifully  situated  on  the  hills,  with  its  feet 
bathed  in  the  blue  river  and  the  blue  sea.  But 
there  can  be  no  sadder  place  in  all  the  world  than 
the  Place  of  Embarkation,  saturated  as  it  has  been 
with  the  tears  of  those  who  keened  the  departure 
of  their  dear  ones  going  to  far-away  lands.  How 
agonising  must  have  been  their  heart-broken  cry, 
gathering  force  until  it  sounded  far  out  to  sea,  as 
the  ship  gradually  faded  out  of  sight.  To  those  on 
board,  the  Cathedral  and  its  glittering  spire  pene- 
trated even  through  the  thick  mist  of  their  tears. 
Did  the  fathers  think  of  this  when  they  built  it, 
and  say  we  will  raise  a  Tower  of  Faith  even 
though  it  be  a  Tower  of  Tears;  but  the  Tower  of 
Faith  will  sweeten  the  Tower  of  Tears  and  keep 
our  people  unforgetting. 

The  sloping  hill  and  the  little  shops  were  more 
cheerful.  From  one,  a  blue-eyed  baby  toddled 
unsteadily  but  joyously  towards  us. 

"  Come  back!  "  her  mother  called.  "  She's  the 
bouldest  colleen  in  the  town.  Look  at  the  bould 
eye  on  her.  Let  go  the  lady's  dress  wid  your  fists, 
you." 

On  the  strength  of  the  "  bould  eye  "  on  her  we 
bought  papers  of  lemon  drops  and  molasses  candy. 
The  young,  dark,  pretty,  Italian-looking  mother 
said  the  baby  was  always  laughing  and  gay,  and 
fearless  and  trusting  of  strangers. 

"  She  do  be  takin'  the  hand  of  anny  that  comes 


244  HERSELF— IRELAND 

along,  and  I'm  afraid  of  me  life  that  wun  day  some 
one  will  be  walkin'  off  wid  the  likes  of  her." 

"  I  could  walk  off  with  her  now,"  I  said,  "  if 
you'll  give  her  to  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  lady,  she's  the  first.  I  can't  give 
that  bould  wun  away." 

A  little  lower  down  the  street  was  a  shabby, 
dusty,  pell-mell,  miscellaneous,  crowded  window 
of  various  objects,  where  a  treasure  might  be  dis- 
covered, and  indeed  was  discovered.  Only  I  did 
not  bear  it  away.  I  have  taste  and  appreciation  of 
curios,  but  no  really  serviceable  knowledge.  The 
find  was  an  old  glass  vase,  in  shape  something  like 
a  Brobdingnagian  tumbler;  it  was  engraved  by 
the  hand  of  an  artist,  in  landscapes,  little  villages, 
and  churches  with  spires,  and  the  price  was  only 
ten  shillings.  Kitty,  who  has  excellent  taste,  urged 
me  to  take  it;  she  even  offered,  and  it  was  a  bona 
fide  offer,  to  carry  it  herself  back  to  Cork. 

"  It  is  lovely,"  I  said,  "  and  I  daresay  I'll  regret 
it  afterwards."  And  I  did,  for  later  when  stay- 
ing with  Nita  Shannon  we  motored  to  Queens- 
town,  and  I  went  back  to  the  shop  and  the  girl 
priced  the  vase  at  three  pounds. 

"  But  when  I  was  here  before  you  told  me  it  was 
ten  shillings." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  sweetly,  "  I  know  I  did,  but  me 
mother  was  away,  an'  I  was  only  guessin'  at  the 
price." 


CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN        245 

"What,"  I  said,  "are  you  guessing  at  to-day? 
I  will  buy  it." 

She  showed  me  various  bits  of  china,  but  her 
guesses  were  as  extravagant  as  if  she  had  been  a 
dealer  in  Wardour  Street,  and  I  left  regretting  my 
lost  opportunity. 

Kitty,  that  memorable  day,  bought  a  valuable 
copy  of  The  Decameron  with  a  good  old  binding, 
and  we  looked  over  it  on  the  boat.  The  little 
steamer  gurgled  as  she  wheeled  about,  and  we 
began  to  sail  by  softly  wooded  slopes,  and  old 
houses  painted  red,  yellow,  white,  and  blue,  twin- 
kled like  jewels  in  the  strong  sunshine.  They 
appeared  such  pleasant,  peaceful  homes  close  to 
the  water,  with  flower-beds  of  roses.  And  such 
roses — pink,  and  white,  and  cream,  and  yellow, 
and  scarlet,  and  wine-red,  and  little  climbing  roses 
of  vaulting  ambition  reaching  as  high  as  the 
roof. 

When  we  left  the  boat,  and  for  the  last  few 
miles  changed  to  the  train,  a  nice  little  withered 
old  lady,  like  a  healthy  winter  apple,  got  into  our 
carriage  carrying  a  lovely  bouquet  of  thick- 
leaved  roses,  perfect  specimens  of  the  Queen 
Mary,  William  Allen  Richardson,  and  Abel  Cha- 
teney  varieties.  She  was  a  stranger  to  us,  we  had 
not  even  spoken  to  her,  and  yet  my  sixth  sense, 
which  often  surprises  me,  told  me  that  those  roses 
would  be  ours.  Presently  she  remarked  amiably 


246  HERSELF— IRELAND 

that  it  was  "  a  pleasant  day,"  and  Kitty,  in  a  white 
gown  with  an  open  neck,  said  "  Glorious,"  and 
the  old  lady  admitted  with  proper  clothes  that  it 
might  be,  but  the  long  spring  had  discouraged  her 
in  providing  a  summer  outfit,  and  now  with  sudden 
tropical  heat,  much  too  warm  in  serge,  she  was 
hoping  to  find  a  ready-to-wear  frock  at  some  of 
the  shops  in  Cork.  A  black  muslin  if  possible,  with 
a  pin  spot  of  white.  Her  granddaughter  would 
meet  her  at  the  station,  it  was  for  her  she  had 
gathered  the  roses.  It  seemed  my  sixth  sense  had 
failed  me,  which  it  rarely  does  after  an  active 
manifestation. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  station  the  lady  solici- 
tously pointed  out  our  tram,  and  we  thanked  her 
and  said  farewell.  We  loitered,  looking  in  shop 
windows  before  turning  into  St.  Patrick  Street. 

"  It  is  a  fine  street,"  I  said  to  Kitty,  "  but  I 
cannot  quite  agree  with  the  Cork  man  who  said, 
'St.  Patrick  Street  is  the  finest  thoroughfare  in 
all  Europe,  barrin'  the  bind  in  it.' " 

And  then  who  should  we  meet  near  ing  "  the 
bind,"  but  our  trim  old  friend  wearing  a  dotted 
black  and  white  muslin:  not  only  had  her  desire 
materialised,  but  she  was  arrayed  in  it.  She 
seemed  pleased  to  see  us  again,  nodded,  smiled, 
stopped,  and  held  out  the  flowers  to  Kitty. 
"Won't  you  ladies  have  these  roses?  My  grand- 
daughter did  not  meet  me  after  all."  Then  my 


CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN        247 

sixth  sense  leaped  for  joy,  and  said,  "  Take  that 
pink  blossom,  leave  the  blush  coloured  one  for 
Kitty,  it  matches  her  beads,  and  never  doubt  me 
again." 

"We  must  now,"  I  said,  "find  Father  Ma- 
hony,"  which  was  a  trifle  difficult  as  I  had  forgot- 
ten the  name  of  the  church,  and  could  only  ask 
where  Father  Mahony  was  buried.  Several  people 
didn't  know,  and  had  never  heard  of  him. 

"  Perhaps,"  I  said,  "  we  should  have  asked  where 
Father  Prout  is  buried,"  for  Father  Mahony  as- 
sumed as  a  nom  de  plume  the  name  of  a  quaint 
old  priest  who  once  lived  in  the  flesh,  and  was  the 
figure  of  many  an  amusing  story.  One  of  them 
I  am  sure  is  true,  for  to  this  day  the  Irish  are 
particularly  fond  of  statuary. 

While  Father  Prout's  friend,  Father  Rufus,  was 
studying  for  the  priesthood  in  Rome,  Father 
Prout  made  him  a  visit,  and  seized  the  occasion  to 
expend  a  subscription  contributed  by  his  parish- 
ioners for  an  altarpiece.  He  spent  days  in  going 
to  artists  and  dealers  in  marbles,  but  found  noth- 
ing that  he  liked,  until  one  afternoon  in  a  state 
of  great  satisfaction  he  begged  Father  Rufus  to 
go  with  him  and  see  his  choice. 

"  Good  heavens! "  said  Father  Rufus;  "  that  is 
a  Diana;  you  can't  have  it." 

"Yes,  I  can,"  said  Father  Prout.  "I  don't 
care  what  it  is,  it's  lovely,  and  I'll  have  it.  Those 


248  HERSELF— IRELAND 

chaps  of  mine  at  Ardnagehy  will  never  know  the 
difference." 

Father  Mahony,  better  known  as  Father  Prout, 
was  somewhat  unconventional.  The  Jesuits  at  one 
time  repudiated  him,  they  did  not  care  for  his 
light-hearted  contributions  to  literature;  but  he 
remained  true  to  his  religion,  and  died  in  a  monas- 
tery. There  was  a  time  when  I  thought  "  The 
Bells  of  Shandon  "  poetry;  people  demand  better 
things  these  days,  and  smile  in  a  superior  manner 
at: 

"  With  deep  affection  and  recollection 

I  often  think  of  the  Shandon  bells — 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would  in  days  of  childhood 

Fling  round  my  cradle  their  magic  spells ; 
On  this  I  ponder,  where'er  I  wander, 

And  thus  grow  fonder,  sweet  Cork,  of  thee ; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee." 

Finally  we  did  find  St.  Anne's,  and  an  obliging 
young  woman  insisted  on  our  listening  to  "  The 
Bells  of  Shandon,  that  sound  so  grand  on  the 
pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee."  And  then  we 
climbed  to  the  top  of  an  adjacent  hill  to  see  the 
panorama  of  Cork,  and  were  rewarded  by  a  very 
beautiful  view.  The  Lee  runs  through  the  fair 
green  valley,  surrounded  by  softly  rounded  hills, 
which  are  covered  with  roads,  and  built  over  with 


CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN        249 

houses.  We  walked  along  the  Mar  dyke,  the 
afternoon  was  warm,  and  we  were  glad  that  it  was 
well  shaded  by  trees.  We  saw  no  salmon  leap,  but 
there  were  salmon  in  the  river;  and  despite  the 
War  there  was  a  variety  of  shipping.  The  pic- 
turesque quays  lie  through  the  town. 

I  had  worn  Cork  serge  in  London;  every  thread 
of  it  was  wool,  and  it  felt  so  pleasant  and  agree- 
able to  the  touch  that  I  wanted  to  see  the  woollen 
mills  at  work.  They  seemed  prosperous,  and 
have  no  difficulty  in  finding  a  market  for  their 
wares. 

Whenever  we  stopped  to  ask  our  way  about,  we 
found  the  people  most  amiable  and  communicative. 
Their  speech  is  made  benign  by  the  hospitable, 
soft,  full,  round  brogue  of  Cork,  and  they  struck 
me  as  much  more  Irish  than  the  people  of  Dublin. 
They  have  the  reputation  of  being  quick-witted, 
and  quick  at  repartee,  and  the  children  in  the 
schools  are  said  to  be  remarkably  precocious. 

Cork  is  proud,  and  justly  so,  of  the  number  of 
eminent  writers,  artists,  and  composers  whom  she 
has  sent  into  the  world.  Fraser's,  Blackwood's, 
and  Bentley's,  the  three  leading  magazines  of 
their  day,  owed  much  of  their  success  to  the  bril- 
liant articles  of  Doctor  Maginn,  Francis  Mahony 
(Father  Prout),  and  Maclise,  who  was  not  only  an 
illustrator,  but  wrote  clever  verse  and  prose. 
Sheridan  Knowles,  the  dramatist,  was  the  author 


250  HERSELF— IRELAND 

of  a  number  of  plays.  I  saw  The  Hunchback, 
when  a  little  girl,  in  New  Orleans;  and  John  Mc- 
Cullough  thrilled  my  young  heart  and  touched  me 
to  tears  in  Virginius.  It  is  a  fine  dramatic  play 
for  a  robust  actor,  and  would  do  well  on  the 
cinematograph.  Thomas  Crofton  Croker  has 
written  many  books  of  charming  Irish  fairy  lore, 
Fairy  Legends  and  Traditions  of  the  South  have 
been  translated  both  into  German  and  French.  I 
saw  a  prettily  illustrated  volume  years  ago  in 
Baden-Baden.  Richard  Alfred  Millikin  was  a 
musician,  painter,  and  writer,  but  he  never  left 
Cork.  John  Augustus  Shea  was  a  writer  and  poet 
of  note.  John  Francis  Maguire,  a  prolific  writer, 
was  editor  of  the  Cork  Examiner.  William 
O'Brien's  novel,  When  We  Were  Boys,  was  of 
such  absorbing  interest  that  I  sat  up  until  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning  reading  it.  And  he  has 
written  other  novels,  reviews,  articles,  essays,  and 
verses. 

And  dear  Justin  McCarthy,  what  a  splendid 
literary  career  he  left  behind  him.  A  long  list  of 
novels,  delightful  books  of  history — what  can  be 
more  entertaining  than  The  History  of  the  Four 
Georges  and  A  History  of  Our  Own  Times.  And 
no  novel  ever  gave  me  more  pleasure  than  Dear 
Lady  Disdain.  I  was  very  young  when  it  ap- 
peared in  monthly  instalments  in  The  Galaxy,  an 
American  magazine,  long  since  dead.  I  did  not 


CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN       251 

dream  that  in  the  future  the  author  would  prove 
one  of  my  most  valued  friends,  and  stand  in  place 
of  my  own  father,  when  I  married  T.  P.  in  St. 
Mary's,  Father  S cole's  little  church  in  Horse- 
ferry  Road,  now  demolished,  and  the  parish  trans- 
ferred to  the  Cathedral. 

Stephen  Foreman,  who  belongs  to  a  later  gen- 
eration, is  a  versatile  writer  of  prose  and  poetry. 
"  The  City  of  the  Crimson  Walls  "  is  a  fine  poem, 
and  The  Errors  of  Comedy  is  a  good  novel.  T.  C. 
Murray,  the  dramatist,  is  a  still  younger  man,  and 
has  undoubtedly  a  promising  career  before  him. 
Birthright  is  almost  too  sincere  a  tragedy;  it  car- 
ries with  it  such  sad  and  bitter  conviction.  Mrs. 
L.  T.  Meade,  the  author  of  Scamp  and  I,  The 
Medicine  Lady,  and  many  other  novels,  sheds 
lustre  on  Cork. 

Beautiful  Kathleen  Cecil  Thurston,  best  known 
by  her  novel  of  John  Chilcote,  M.P.,  was  a  Cork 
lady.  The  Rev.  Lewis  Macnamara  wrote  Blind 
Larry,  and  Other  Tales — beautiful  little  studies  of 
Irish  peasant  life.  And  there  was  John  Paul 
Dalton,  who  wrote  a  highly  dramatic  poem,  "  Sars- 
field  at  Limerick,"  and  other  poems  and  various 
essays.  William  Buckley  is  an  author  of  note. 
Croppies  Lie  Down  was  exceedingly  clever;  and 
Mrs.  Hunger  ford,  the  author  of  Molly  Bawn, 
April's  Lady,  and  a  large  number  of  spirited 
novels  has  won  for  herself  a  world-wide  reputation. 


252  HERSELF— IRELAND 

S.  Lennox  Robinson,  the  author  of  The  Cross 
Roads  and  other  plays,  is  a  young  and  clever  play- 
wright. The  late  Rev.  Patrick  Sheehan  has 
written  a  number  of  very  popular  and  original 
novels.  Then  there  was  John  Fitzgerald,  Bard 
of  Lee,  and  various  minor  poets  and  writers  who 
have  shed  a  milder  but  no  less  pleasant  lustre  on 
Cork. 

Among  the  artists  from  Cork  there  are  James 
Barry,  Daniel  Maclise,  R.A.,  Alfred  Elinore, 
R.A.,  Samuel  Ford,  who  gave  great  promise  but 
unfortunately  died  at  the  early  age  of  twenty- 
three.  Richard  Lyster,  a  musician  as  well  as 
artist.  James  Cavanagh  Murphy,  who  wrote  bril- 
liantly on  architecture.  Albert  Hartland,  a  beau- 
tiful landscape  and  water-colour  painter,  entirely 
self-taught;  and  William  Linden  Casey,  a  water- 
colour  artist  of  great  merit,  admired  by  Ruskin, 
taught  King  Edward  VII  drawing.  Thomas 
Hovenden  is  a  Cork  man,  whom  America  partly 
claims  as  he  began  his  art  career  in  New  York,  and 
almost  all  his  subjects  are  of  life  in  America; 
and  William  Magrath,  though  born  in  Cork,  has 
also  made  his  career  in  America.  Thaddeus,  a 
handsome  and  agreeable  man,  is  a  distinguished 
portrait  painter  and  has  painted  many  Royalties. 
Charles  Mclvor  Grierson  was  born  in  Queenstown, 
and  there  are  Eugene  McSwiney,  James  Griffen, 
Samuel  Wright,  Hugh  Charde,  and  Sir  Egerton 


CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN       253 

Coghill.  Seamus  O'Brien,  a  young  sculptor  of 
decided  promise  and  a  playwright  as  well,  has 
chosen  San  Francisco  as  his  place  of  abode;  and 
William  Barry,  a  successful  portrait  painter,  is 
now  claimed  by  America. 

A  number  of  well-known  musical  composers 
were  born  in  Cork.  Almost  every  Southern  girl 
has  sung,  "We  May  Never  Meet  Again,"  by 
Louis  Blake,  who  lived  in  New  Orleans,  and 
"Maid  of  Athens,"  and  "When  We  Two 
Parted,"  by  Henry  Robinson  Allen.  I  heard 
Sims  Reeves  sing  "  I  Watch  for  Thee  in  Star- 
less Night,"  by  Alexander  Roche,  at  several  con- 
certs in  London.  And  Matthew  O'Riordan  wrote 
a  great  number  of  ballads  that  were  extremely 
popular  in  America.  When  I  was  a  gay  uncon- 
scious seventeen,  with  all  of  love  before  me,  I  used 
to  sing  with — possibly — heart-breaking  pathos, 
"  My  Dream  of  Love  Is  O'er,"  and  now  indeed 
that  it  is  o'er,  I  haven't  the  voice  to  sing  about 
it.  Poor  young  man,  he  was  said  to  have  written 
the  appealing  ballad  to  a  faithless  sweetheart, 
which  only  made  it  more  fascinating.  Louis  Gar- 
ret, the  organist  of  St.  Luke's,  Cork,  is  a  very 
gifted  musician  and  composer.  I  heard  a  lovely 
song  of  his  at  one  of  the  popular  concerts  in 
London. 

So  with  writers,  artists,  and  musicians,  Cork  has 
indeed  a  goodly  roll  of  honour,  and  there  are,  as 


254  HERSELF— IRELAND 

always  in  Ireland,  invisible  claims  connecting  them 
with  America. 

The  old  curiosity  shops  of  Cork  are  filled  with 
objects  of  interest.  At  one  of  them  I  was  lucky 
enough  to  find  a  charming  coloured  print  of  Mrs. 
Jordan,  who  made  her  first  appearance  in  Dublin 
in  1777,  in  the  part  of  "  Phoebe  "  in  As  You  Like 
It.  She  was  a  beautiful  Irish  girl  with  blue  eyes 
and  a  dewy  skin,  who  captured  the  heart  of  the 
Duke  of  Clarence,  heir  to  the  throne  and  after- 
wards William  IV.  Mrs.  Jordan  bore  the  King 
ten  children,  who  were  known  by  the  names  of 
Fitzclarence.  Her  five  daughters  married  two 
earls,  the  youngest  son  of  a  duke,  a  general  in  the 
British  Army,  and  a  baronet.  The  King,  who 
loved  his  children,  gave  Colonel  Fitzclarence,  his 
eldest  son,  one  of  his  own  titles,  the  Earl  of 
Munster. 

William's  memory  would  have  been  held  in 
greater  respect  if  after  a  life  of  simple  domesticity, 
which  lasted  for  so  many  years,  he  had  upheld  his 
morganatic  marriage  with  the  faithful  companion 
of  his  youth  and  the  mother  of  his  children.  At 
the  end  of  twenty  years  he  tired  of  her,  and  at  his 
request  she  left  him.  He  married  the  Princess 
Adelaide  in  1818. 

The  Chapel  of  Saint  Finn  Barr  attached  to  the 
Honan  Hostle,  Cork,  built  under  the  cultured 
supervision  of  Sir  John  O'Connell,  is  one  of  the 


CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN        255 

most  interesting,  if  not  the  most  interesting,  church 
in  Ireland,  being  not  only  perfect  in  taste  but 
a  comprehensive  example  of  national  art.  The 
architect,  the  builder,  carvers  of  stone,  the  design- 
ers, and  makers  of  the  stained  glass  windows,  the 
weavers  and  workers  of  the  tapestries,  and  binder 
of  the  missals,  and  the  artist  who  made  and 
enamelled  the  beautiful  monstrance  are  all  Irish 
men  and  women  living  in  the  country,  and  under 
the  influence  of  Irish  tradition  in  history  and  in 
art.  The  little  church,  a  model  of  the  best  skill, 
craftsmanship,  and  resource  of  Ireland,  is  built  of 
Irish  limestone,  in  the  Hiberno-Romanesque  style 
of  a  thousand  years  ago.  It  is  suggestive  of  the 
Irish  and  is  purely  Celtic  in  character. 

The  outside  of  the  building  is  dignified  and  sim- 
ple, the  west  doorway  has  been  adapted  from  the 
chapel  of  St.  Cronan  of  Roscrea;  over  it  is  placed 
the  statue  of  St.  Finn  Barr,  the  work  of  Mr. 
Oliver  Shepherd,  R.H.A.,  and  the  interior  deco- 
ration is  impressive  and  harmonious.  The  altar 
possesses  a  simple  satisfying  dignity,  being  com- 
posed of  one  great  slab  of  Irish  limestone.  Mr. 
Oswald  Reeves,  a  master  of  his  art,  has  contributed 
a  most  brilliant  piece  of  enamelling  for  the  altar, 
and  the  art  of  enamelling  is  nowhere  better  exe- 
cuted than  in  Ireland.  The  design  of  the  floor, 
which  is  original  in  conception  and  warm  in  colour- 
ing, is  a  connecting  note  with  the  brilliant  stained- 


256  HERSELF— IRELAND 

glass  windows,  and  the  Stations  of  the  Cross.  I 
could  linger  long  before  those  glowing  windows, 
the  work  of  Mr.  Harry  Clarke  (whom  Canon 
Hanney  declares  a  genius  in  stained  glass)  and 
Miss  Sarah  Purser,  for  they  are  not  only  fine  in 
design  and  execution,  but  they  picture  the  poetic 
miracles  in  the  life  of  many  Irish  saints. 

St.  Patrick,  imposing  in  mitre  and  crozier,  holds 
leaves  of  shamrock  in  his  right  hand,  and  his  lips, 
slightly  apart,  seem  to  whisper  his  inspired  prayer, 
those  vigorous  lines  that  embody  all  of  Christianity 
in  their  strong  appeal: 

At  Tara  to-day  may  the  strength  of  God  pilot  me, 

May  the  Power  of  God  preserve  me, 

May  the  Wisdom  of  God  instruct  me, 

May  the  Eye  of  God  behold  me, 

May  the  Ear  of  God  hear  me, 

May  the  Word  of  God  make  me  eloquent, 

May  the  Hand  of  God  protect  me, 

May  the  Way  of  God  direct  me, 

May  the  Shield  of  God  defend  me, 

May  the  Heart  of  God  guard  me, 

Against  the  snares  of  demons,  the  temptations  of  vices, 

The  inclinations  of  the  mind, 

Against  every  man  who  meditates  evil  towards  me, 
Far  or  nigh,  alone  or  with  others. 

St.  Brigid,  that  humble,  chaste  friend  of  the 
poor,  but,  nevertheless,  a  woman  of  capacity  and 
energy,  as  the  founder  of  a  cathedral  church  at 
Kildare,  bears  her  church  in  her  hand.  The  calf 


CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN        257 

which  she  succoured  leans  its  little  head  against 
her  arm,  and  there  are  suggestions  of  her  many 
charities  and  miracles  in  the  details  of  the  win- 
dow. St.  Finn  Barr  gives  a  fine  note  of  colour 
robed  in  his  splendid  red  chasuble,  his  uplifted 
right  hand  which  has  once  touched  the  Saviour  is 
reverently  covered  by  a  glove,  but  the  radiance 
pierces  through  it.  The  beautiful  border  of  this 
window  is  suggested  by  the  hazel  tree,  which 
when  blessed  by  the  saint  bore  leaves,  nuts,  and 
fruit  in  mid-winter. 

St.  Ita,  a  noble  royal  lady,  the  St.  Brigid  of 
Munster,  is  being  presented  by  an  angel  with  three 
jewels  of  great  price,  in  appreciation  of  her  love 
of  the  Trinity. 

St.  Columcille,  "  the  Dove  of  the  Churches,"  is 
surrounded  by  the  doves  who  brought  him  mes- 
sages of  love  from  Derry  to  lona,  the  angel  who 
daily  whispered  counsel  in  his  ear  is  beside  him, 
and  his  white  horse  nestles  his  head  on  the  saint's 
shoulder. 

St.  Fachtna,  St.  Declan  and  his  miraculous  bell, 
St.  Ailbe  who  found  a  royal  babe,  the  foster  son 
of  a  tender-hearted  mother  wolf,  St.  Gobnet  the 
patron  saint  of  the  bees,  St.  Carthage,  St.  Flan- 
nan,  St.  Colman,  St.  Brendan,  and  St.  Mungret, 
all  have  beautiful  commemorative  windows  of  their 
lives  and  miraculous  deeds  in  the  hostel  of  St. 
Finn  Barr. 


258  HERSELF— IRELAND 

The  dominant  note  of  colour  in  the  furnishing  of 
the  church  is  a  rich  crimson.  Miss  Evelyn  Glee- 
son,  the  founder  of  the  Dun  Emer  Guild,  has 
woven  a  dossal  divided  into  four  panels,  each  of 
them  containing  Celtic  symbols  of  the  four  evan- 
gelists from  the  Book  of  Durrow.  The  background 
is  a  splendid  red,  and  a  beautiful  border  of  Celtic 
work  divides  the  panels  and  frames  the  dossal  on 
the  top  and  sides.  Miss  Gleeson  is  also  responsible 
for  an  antependium  of  great  beauty.  The  ground- 
work is  dull  gold  embroidery,  and  the  various 
sacred  figures  have  been  raised  in  thick  embroidery 
in  rich  colours  from  the  background.  The  vest- 
ments, among  them  a  cloth  of  gold  cope,  chasuble 
and  dalmatics,  have  been  embroidered  in  the  work- 
shop of  Mr.  Barry  Egan  in  Cork.  The  other  sets 
of  vestments  are  made  of  the  richest  Irish  poplins, 
and  embroidered  in  Celtic  designs.  Miss  Kelly's 
missal,  a  labour  of  love,  is  bound  in  scarlet  mo- 
rocco, the  vivid  hue  being  controlled  and  softened 
by  a  border  of  soft  olive  greens  outlined  with  gold. 
The  high  lights  of  the  design  are  pin-pricks  of 
gold  and  tiny  pearls,  which  on  close  inspection 
prove  to  be  the  careful  art  of  the  designer  ex- 
pressed in  a  cunning  inlay  of  white  leather.  The 
Celtic  cross  in  the  centre  of  the  cover  unites  and 
forms  part  of  the  border,  and  flashes  of  semi- 
precious stones,  topaz,  amethyst,  and  aquamarine 
in  the  centre  of  the  Cross,  give  brilliance  and  finish 


CORK  AND  QUEENSTOWN        259 

to  the  completed  design  of  a  perfect  piece  of  book- 
binding. 

Mr.  William  A.  Scott,  Professor  of  Architec- 
ture in  the  National  University  of  Ireland,  fur- 
nished drawings  for  the  Celtic  designs  of  all  the 
altar  plate  to  Edmund  Johnston,  who  has  a  well- 
deserved  reputation  for  the  reproduction  of  antique 
Irish  silver.  The  monstrance  of  silver  plated  in 
gold  and  enriched  with  large  cabochons  of  sapphire 
enamel  is  a  remarkable  piece  of  work. 

The  creations  of  a  nation  reveal  their  character, 
and  the  Chapel  of  St.  Finn  Barr  speaks  more  elo- 
quently than  a  hundred  books  for  the  artistic 
ability  of  the  Irish  people. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

KILLARNEY 

A  small  share  of  anything  is  not  worth  much 
But  a  small  share  of  sense  is  worth  much. 

Old  Gaelic  Proverb 

I  DON'T  like  martial  law  in  summer.  Particularly 
on  a  hot  day  when  it  has  nothing  to  do  but  shoulder 
a  rifle,  look  in  my  window,  and  make  the  lowering 
of  my  blind  a  sweltering  necessity.  Kitty  and  I 
had  pleasant  rooms  at  the  Royal  Victoria  Hotel, 
"  by  Killarney's  Lakes  and  Fells,"  but  numerous 
tents  and  soldiers  occupied  the  sweet  green  field 
enamelled  with  wild  flowers,  between  the  hotel  and 
the  lake.  Troops  were  stationed  at  Killarney  on 
account  of  its  being  a  very  dangerous  part  of  the 
country,  an  incipient  rising  had  been  quelled  and 
was  still  held  at  bay.  As  a  matter  of  fact  not 
a  single  shot  had  been  fired.  Not  even  a  youthful 
Sinn  Feiner  had  defiantly  let  off  a  fire-cracker. 
A  woman  who  made  beautiful  crochet,  of  a  design 
called  the  coxcomb  pattern,  said  she  hoped  the 
Irish  in  America  would  send  no  more  money  to 
John  Redmond  and  his  followers,  otherwise  all 
was  in  order.  But  there  was  a  large  party  of 
happy  officers  and  men  enjoying  a  timely  holiday. 
Very  likely  a  young  officer  with  bathing,  boat- 


KILLARNEY  261 

ing,  and  fishing  tendencies  had  bethought  him  of 
reporting  an  official  riot,  which  included  "  explo- 
sions, detonations,  and  pistol  shots,"  altogether  a 
different  thing  from  the  real  riot,  and  his  vivid 
report  necessitated  troops.  Real  jolly  playboys 
of  the  Army  they  were.  Bathing  in  the  early 
morning,  and  at  odd  times  during  the  day.  Play- 
ing cards  and  games  in  the  afternoon.  Singing 
"  Tipperary,"  "  Keep  the  Home  Fires  Burning," 
and  "  My  Little  Grey  Home  in  the  West,"  in  the 
evening,  and  guarding  with  vigilance  a  lonely  stile, 
which  separated  the  adjoining  field,  where  father 
donkeys  recuperated  from  overwork,  and  mother 
donkeys  looked  after  donkeens. 

The  only  really  martial  act  I  witnessed  was 
an  alert  soldier  prodding  with  his  bayonet  an 
ancient  and  obstinate  ass,  with  no  respect  for 
martial  law  or  military  discipline,  who  would  hang 
his  head  over  that  Sinn  Fein  stile.  Naturally  the 
windows  of  a  hotel  were  more  interesting  than 
donkeys,  especially  when  pretty  Kitty  was  comb- 
ing her  long  black  hair,  so  we  had  often  to  shut 
out  the  lovely  view  and  cool  air  for  modesty's 
sake. 

The  officers  were  no  less  cheerful  than  the  sol- 
diers. They  were  accompanied  by  their  wives, 
who  knitted  and  read  novels  during  the  day,  looked 
pretty,  and  wore  dressy  blouses  for  dinner.  One 
young  bachelor,  a  good  pianist,  singled  out  the 


262  HERSELF— IRELAND 

best  musical  talent  among  the  soldiers,  reinforced 
it  with  local  singers,  and  we  had  several  open- 
air  concerts  which  were  appreciated  except  by  the 
old  donkey,  who  lifted  up  his  voice  in  a  pitiful 
wheezing  bray  of  protest  at  the  shrillness  of  the 
soprano  and  the  die-away  tones  of  the  tenor. 

A  very  well-dressed  young  person  imposed  upon 
my  inexhaustible  well  of  credulity  by  calling  a 
young  captain  "  Poppa."  I  naturally  inferred 
that  she  was  "  Mrs.  Poppa,"  and  we  became  quite 
friendly.  The  relationship  of  "  Uncle  "  fills  me 
with  suspicion.  I  have  been  deceived  by  several 
benign  uncles  with  showy  nieces,  but  the  American 
"  Poppa  " — the  lady  was  a  hyphenated  American 
— suggests  the  domestic  husband  and  loving  father, 
and  only  that  the  captain  continually  sought  to 
talk  to  us — and  preferably  to  Kitty — thus  arousing 
the  jealousy  of  the  lady,  who  told  me  he  was  her 
"  man,"  and  they  were  to  be  married  after  the 
war,  I  should  never  have  known  they  were  not 
married  already.  Captain  "  Poppa  "  did  not  men- 
tion marriage  to  me,  he  only  said  he  was  going  to 
the  front  and  was  certain  to  be  killed.  However, 
if  he  escapes  shrapnel  and  bullet,  he  certainly  will 
not  escape  matrimony.  The  lady's  unintermittent 
will  and  silent  perseverance  are  certain  to  con- 
quer his  intermittent  will  and  loquacious  indecision. 

Sunday,  a  magnificent  day  of  steady  brilliant 
sunshine,  turned  the  lake  into  a  sheet  of  gold;  and 


KILLARNEY  263 

I  said  to  Kitty,  who  was  always  amiable  and 
open  to  any  suggestion,  that  it  would  be  well  to 
make  the  Grand  Tour.  The  little  low  Victoria 
was  quite  comfortable,  we  saw  the  ruins  of 
Killalee  Church  and  Killalee  House,  and  crossed 
the  winding  Laun  at  Beaufort  Bridge.  Even  on  a 
Sunday  there  were  one  or  two  fishermen  there, 
though  it  was  late  for  salmon,  but  trout  are  always 
to  be  had.  We  diverged  a  little  to  obtain  a  view 
of  Dunloe  Castle,  a  mountain  stronghold  of  O'Sul- 
livan  Mor  which  has  been  restored  and  made  into 
a  convenient  residence. 

There  are  beautiful  views  of  the  lake  from  the 
Castle,  but  lovely  as  the  day  and  the  drive  were, 
we  looked  forward  eagerly  to  the  Gap  of  Dunloe. 
How  many  pictures  we  had  seen  of  it.  Irish 
artists  love  its  threatening  gloom  and  shadows,  its 
shifting  clouds  and  changing  atmosphere.  My 
enthusiasm  somewhat  subsided,  when  I  saw  "  the 
ponies  "  which  turned  out  to  be  tall,  raw-boned 
horses ;  but  Kitty  told  me  to  "  be  a  sport  "  and  the 
guide  to  "  lep  up,"  so  I  mounted  my  roan,  which 
was  ambitious  and  insisted  on  keeping  a  little  in 
advance  of  Kitty's  large  bay  mare.  And  I  found 
it  distinctly  trying  when  my  animal  decided,  as  he 
often  did,  on  violent  trotting.  We  soon  left  gentle 
and  domestic  scenery  behind  us,  and  although  the 
sunshine  continued  uninterruptedly  brilliant,  the 
sombre  and  wild  hillsides  cast  dark  and  heavy 


264  HERSELF— IRELAND 

shadows.  We  looked  into  the  purple  tarns  and 
indigo-blue  lakelets,  and  up  at  frowning  precipi- 
tous mountains,  and  down  fragrant  precipices 
blooming  in  wild  flowers.  It  was  magnificent 
scenery,  towering  mountains  and  steep  hills,  for- 
ests and  woods,  streams  and  lakes;  but  it  was  all 
lonely.  The  silence  environed  us  and  shut  us 
away  from  the  world. 

Our  first  stopping-place  was  Kate  Kearney's 
cottage,  who  was  said  to  be  a  great  beauty,  and 
in  the  last  century  made  and  sold  celebrated 
poteen.  We  refused  to  hear  the  echo,  nevertheless 
we  did  hear  it,  and  as  long  as  soft-hearted  Kitty 
dispensed  at  intervals  various  small  coin  it  re- 
echoed. St.  Patrick  is  supposed  to  have  planted 
a  plot  of  grass  near  one  of  the  little  lakes,  and 
it  is  the  greenest  green  grass  and  the  most  velvety 
that  was  ever  seen,  and  almost  miraculously,  even 
in  the  coldest  weather,  its  intense  emerald  hue  re- 
mains unchanged.  The  black  of  the  lake  and  the 
green  of  the  sward,  with  the  purple  mountains 
above  it,  and  the  deep  blue  sky,  made  colour  con- 
trasts so  striking  they  would  have  satisfied  even 
the  most  daring  futurist.  Our  guides  not  only 
gave  us  a  picturesque  account  of  Kate  Kearney, 
but  beyond  the  two  lakes  of  Cushvalley  and 
Augher  they  singled  out  a  little  white  cottage  with 
a  freshly  thatched  roof,  described  it  as  the  former 
abode  of  the  beautiful  Colleen  Bawn,  "  The  Lily 


KILLARNEY  265 

of  Killarney,"  and  relying  on  our  ignorance  gave 
an  optimistic  history  of  the  unfortunate  girl,  end- 
ing with  her  happy  marriage  to  a  princely  gentle- 
man, and  subsequent  career  as  a  lady  of  rank  and 
fashion.  The  real  story  of  John  Scanlan,  the  son 
of  William  Scanlan  of  Ballycahane,  a  well-con- 
nected and  well-to-do  country  squire,  and  the  Col- 
leen Bawn  was  much  more  thrilling  and  melo- 
dramatic. 

The  young  man  had  been  an  officer  in  the  Royal 
Navy,  was  dashing  and  handsome  with  ingratiating 
manners,  and  he  easily  won  the  heart  of  Ellen 
Hanley,  a  peasant  girl  of  sixteen,  who,  on  account 
of  her  exceeding  beauty,  her  lily-white  fairness, 
and  her  braids  of  shining  golden  hair,  was  known 
as  the  Colleen  Bawn. 

One  evening  in  July  Scanlan,  Ellen,  and 
Michael  O 'Sullivan  were  out  in  a  boat,  and  they 
offered  to  ferry  Nelly  Walsh  and  three  young  men 
across  the  Shannon,  from  Kilrush  to  Glin.  A 
terrible  storm  arose,  and  they  all  remained  the 
night  at  Carrigafoyle,  an  island  on  the  coast  of 
the  county  of  Kerry.  Ellen  Hanley  wore  a  long 
grey  cloak,  a  gold  ring  on  her  finger,  and  she  car- 
ried a  little  round  trunk  filled  with  fine  wearing 
apparel.  The  next  morning  the  young  men  of 
Nelly  Walsh's  party  went  to  Glin,  but  Nelly  re- 
mained with  Ellen  Hanley.  Later  in  the  day 
Nelly  was  rowed  across  to  Glin,  leaving  Ellen 


266  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Hanley  with  John  Scanlan  and  Michael  Sul- 
livan, his  servant  and  boatman.  They  had  played 
together  as  boys,  and  so  great  was  Michael's 
love  and  admiration  for  his  young  master,  that 
he  was  ready  to  go  even  to  the  gallows  for 
him. 

The  next  morning  when  Nelly  Walsh  met  Scan- 
Ian  and  O 'Sullivan,  on  being  questioned,  they  told 
her  different  stories  of  the  absent  Colleen  Bawn. 
One  said  she  had  remained  at  Kilkee,  the  other 
that  she  was  in  Kilrush,  and  both  told  the  story 
later  that  she  had  gone  away  with  the  captain  of 
a  ship.  The  grey  cloak  and  the  beautiful  clothes 
from  the  little  round  trunk  were  given  by  Michael 
O'Sullivan  to  his  sister,  while  he  himself  wore  the 
plain  gold  wedding-ring  on  his  finger,  which  Ellen 
Hanley  had  displayed  with  such  pride  to  Nelly 
Walsh. 

Certainly  the  evidence  of  foul  play  seemed 
against  the  two  young  men,  but  though  suspected 
they  were  not  arrested  until  two  months  later, 
when  the  body  of  the  Colleen  Bawn  was  dis- 
covered on  a  small  and  lonely  estuary  of  the 
Shannon,  under  a  mound  of  stones  and  slimy 
weeds.  There  was  only  a  little  bodice  to  identify 
her,  and  her  perfect  teeth,  sound  and  milk-white 
as  pearls.  A  rope  was  tightly  knotted  about  her 
slender  neck,  showing  that  she  had  been  first 
strangled;  and  a  loop  at  the  end  suggested  that  a 


KILLARNEY  267 

stone  had  been  attached  to  it,  and  after  the  murder 
her  body  dropped  in  the  water. 

It  was  proved  that  Ellen  Hanley  had  been  liv- 
ing with  her  uncle,  a  well-to-do  ropemaker  in 
Limerick,  and  while  there  she  had  contracted  a 
secret  marriage  with  Scanlan;  afterwards  he  had 
tired  of  her,  and  she  had  been  foully  dealt  with. 
When  the  river  gave  up  its  dead,  Scanlan,  sure 
of  his  safety,  was  visiting  at  one  of  the  great 
houses  in  Ireland.  He  was  arrested,  committed  to 
the  gaol  in  Limerick,  and  the  trial  was  begun  with 
as  little  delay  as  possible.  The  great  O'Connell, 
employed  for  his  defence,  did  all  that  he  could 
for  the  distinguished  young  prisoner,  but  the  wit- 
nesses stood  the  cross-fire  of  his  brilliant  exami- 
nation without  a  single  contradiction. 

The  jury  made  no  delay  in  finding  the  prisoner 
guilty,  and  the  judge  sentenced  him  to  be  hanged 
in  twenty-four  hours.  Immediately  after  the 
sentence  one  of  his  family,  a  good  horseman, 
travelled  over  the  country  to  procure  names  of 
men  of  influence  to  a  petition  for  mercy.  A  depu- 
tation of  distinguished  gentlemen  presented  the 
paper,  but  the  judge  said  he  had  just  sentenced 
an  illiterate  man  to  death  for  a  murder  less  ter- 
rible, therefore  he  could  not  grant  a  respite  to 
Scanlan,  an  intelligent  gentleman,  whose  crime  was 
far  greater  in  enormity.  The  law  must  take  its 
course.  As  a  last  favour  Scanlan  was  allowed  to 


268  HERSELF— IRELAND 

drive  in  the  family  coach  to  Gallows'  Green,  but 
the  horses  neighing  pitifully  refused  to  stir. 
Neither  blows  nor  threats  would  induce  them  to 
draw  their  unfortunate  young  master  to  the  place 
of  execution.  He  was  obliged  to  walk  in  the 
sad  procession  to  the  gibbet,  and  to  the  last  pro- 
tested his  innocence,  saying:  "  I  suffer  for  a  crime 
in  which  I  did  not  participate." 

Later,  Michael  O'Sullivan  was  found,  arrested, 
confessed  his  guilt,  and  he,  too,  was  executed. 

Even  the  unique  gifts  of  O'Connell  could  not 
save  these  two  unfortunate  young  men.  At  this 
time  he  had  gained  the  reputation  of  being  the 
greatest  criminal  lawyer  in  Europe.  Nature 
seemed  to  have  given  him  every  physical,  personal, 
and  intellectual  advantage.  He  was  tall,  with  a 
straight,  muscular  figure,  a  fine  expressive  face, 
deep  blue  eyes,  and  a  voice  of  sweetness  and 
tremendous  power.  It  could  roll  like  the  thunder 
of  a  splendid  organ,  or  in  tender  tones  of  irresist- 
ible pathos  bring  tears  to  the  eyes  of  his  hearers; 
and  great  as  were  his  gifts  of  oratory,  his  intellec- 
tual gifts  were  still  greater.  He  had  a  wonderful 
sense  of  humour,  a  razor-like  power  of  sarcasm, 
and  with  this  unusual  combination  of  qualities  he 
was  still  more  unusual  in  knowing  the  letter  of 
the  law. 

Even  the  most  sensational  murder  cases  are  for- 
gotten, but  the  Colleen  Bawn  has  been  made  im- 


SCENES  IN  THE  LAKE  COUNTRY 


KILLARNEY  269 

mortal,  first  by  Gerald  Griffin's  story  of  The  Col- 
legians and  later  by  Dion  Boucicault's  thrilling 
drama  of  The  Colleen  Bawn.  Mrs.  Boucicault 
told  me  that  her  husband  was  so  moved  and  in- 
spired by  The  Collegians,  although  the  play  dif- 
fered from  the  book,  that  at  the  end  of  three  weeks 
he  had  finished  the  four  acts,  and  on  Saturday  they 
had  begun  rehearsals.  It  was  in  The  Colleen 
Bawn  that  I  first  saw  this  greatly  gifted  Irish 
actor,  and  with  an  ear  attuned  to  sound,  I  have 
never  forgotten  his  wonderful  voice.  Like  Sarah 
Bernhardt's,  it  could  be  described  as  a  voice  of 
gold.  Every  human  emotion:  scorn,  pride,  rage, 
fear,  despair,  love,  tenderness — oh,  such  exquisite 
melting  tenderness — were  conveyed  in  its  myriad 
tones.  And  Dion  Boucicault  was  not  only  an 
actor  but  a  literary  man  as  well.  He  wrote  many 
thrilling  plays  beside  The  Colleen  Batnn,  and  the 
libretto  and  the  lyrics  of  that  popular  opera  The 
Lily  of  Killarney.  So  perhaps  after  all,  with  a 
book,  and  a  play,  and  an  opera  to  keep  her  mem- 
ory green,  the  beautiful  Colleen  Bawn  did  not 
meet  her  tragic  death  in  vain. 

When  we  reached  the  second  black  rock,  cleft 
by  the  sword  of  the  great  Finn  McCoul,  our 
horses  were  stopped,  and  the  guide  told  us  to  make 
a  wish,  which  was  certain  to  come  true.  I  have 
a  thirty  years'  wish  on  tap,  so  it  was  not  necessary 
for  me  to  linger  long  by  the  lake,  where,  according 


270  HERSELF— IRELAND 

to  history,  St.  Patrick  drowned  the  last  serpent, 
but  according  to  legend  the  serpent  still  lives,  and 
is  imprisoned  in  a  copper  chest  which  is  lodged  in 
the  bottom  of  the  lake,  waiting  for  the  last  great 
day,  when  he  will  emerge  for  judgment.  But  until 
then  he  remains  solitary,  for  no  self-respecting 
fish  would  associate  with  him  or  keep  him 
company. 

The  mountains,  awe-inspiring,  rose  on  either 
side  to  enormous  heights  above  us.  We  saw  an 
eagle  soar  and  wild  deer  disappear,  and  the  sun 
seemed  to  be  less  bright  in  the  deep  valley,  it  was 
so  obscured  by  black  and  purple  shadows.  When- 
ever I  was  particularly  enjoying  the  view,  and 
drifting  into  a  sentimental  and  romantic  mood,  my 
large  red  horse  started  off  on  a  fierce  disturbing 
trot,  and  by  the  time  I  reached  the  lovely  lake  I 
felt  rather  like  a  bruised  jelly.  We  had  a  little 
anxious  excitement  when  Kitty's  mare  galloped 
and  her  rider  cast  a  neat  brown  shoe.  There  was 
some  difficulty  in  finding  it,  but  eventually  the 
guide  discovered  a  high  suede  heel  under  a  spread- 
ing fern,  and  we  left  the  splendid  gloom  of  the 
Gap  and  stepped  into  the  broad  boat  awaiting  us 
on  the  Upper  Lake.  The  younger  of  the  boatmen 
was  rather  silent,  but  the  middle-aged  captain  of 
the  craft,  who  was  a  strong  swift  oarsman,  was 
full  of  information  and  stories. 

I  was  interested  to  see  the  islands  of  the  Upper 


KILLARNEY  271 

Lake,  particularly  Arbutus  Island,  as  I  expected 
to  find  the  beautiful  pink  American  arbutus;  but 
it  is  quite  a  different  plant,  much  larger  and 
finer  than  ours,  though  the  flowers  are  far  less 
fragrant. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  beauty  of  the 
lakes  on  that  lovely  day,  the  strong  lights  and 
shadows  from  the  surrounding  hills,  the  intense 
blue  of  the  sky  and  water,  the  glossy  green  of 
the  varied  verdure,  the  sweetness  of  the  sound  of 
running  water  from  the  little  streams  that  whisper 
to  the  lakes.  But  how  strange  the  loneliness  and 
the  want  of  summer  houses  seem  to  an  American. 
Killarney  is  more  beautiful  than  our  American 
lakes,  and  yet  they  are  fringed  with  gay  hos- 
pitable villas  and  cottages,  while  these  sweet 
waters  of  Ireland  are  left  undisturbed  to  silence 
and  to  loneliness.  Lovely  wild  flowers  bloom  to 
the  very  water's  edge — Water  Germander,  Heal- 
all  and  Bugle,  Bluebottle  and  Adder's  Tongue, 
and  ferns  were  crowding  forward  to  absorb  the 
moisture,  while  deeper  in  the  woods  we  got  a 
glimpse  of  Foxglove,  blackberry  vines,  and  Sweet 
Woodruff,  and  near  us  a  ruin  was  completely 
surrounded  by  Elecampane.  There  is  everything 
to  make  Killarney  beautiful — water,  hills,  woods, 
sky,  for  even  when  it  rains  the  sky  is  silvery  and 
clear.  Brilliant  patches  of  colour,  fields  of  golden 
red,  and  headlands  and  rocks  covered  in  the  beau- 


272  HERSELF— IRELAND 

tiful  magenta  heather,  that  is  never  seen  except 
in  Ireland. 

As  we  glided  over  the  lake,  Kitty  called  out 
excitedly,  "  I  saw  a  snow-white  silver  trout." 

The  boatman  said,  "  Did  she  have  a  rosy  mark 
on  her  side? " 

And  Kitty,  who  was  trailing  her  hand  in  the 
water  said,  "  I  don't  know,  it  glided  quickly  under 
my  hand,  and  looked  like  a  fish  carved  from 
mother-of-pearl." 

"Ah,  'twas  her  right  enough,"  said  the  boat- 
man; "'twas  the  Princess;  she  would  be  out  late 
on  a  day  like  this,  she  loves  the  sunshine." 

"  The  Princess,"  said  Kitty,  "  is  it  a  fairy  fish?  " 

The  boatman  was  slow  to  answer.  "  You  Amer- 
icans have  no  good  people  in  your  country,  and 
don't  believe  in  thim.  I  won't  bother  you  with 
this  tale." 

"  Oh,  yes  we  have,"  I  said ;  "  and  our  fairies 
have  wept  real  tears." 

"  That  cannot  be,  lady,"  said  the  boatman ; 
"  the  good  people  are  too  gay  to  weep.  Thim 
mischievous  crathurs  have  no  tears  in  their  little 
hearts." 

"  We  have  proof  of  the  Virginia  fairies  weeping 
tears,"  I  said.  "  It  was  ages  ago  when  a  breath- 
less Puck  came  to  the  Happy  Valley,  and  found 
all  the  fairies  dancing  at  a  great  festival  to  the  full 
moon  of  midsummer.  His  dress  was  made  from  a 


KILLARNEY  273 

black  Iris,  his  wings  were  grey  and  drooping,  and 
he  looked  sorrowful  and  broken-hearted.  The 
pretty  little  rainbow  creatures  crowded  round  him 
and  called  out,  '  Join  the  dance !  Join  the  dance ! ' 
And  he  said,  *  No,  my  heavy  grief  makes  my  feet 
like  drops  of  lead.  I  have  seen  a  horrible  thing, 
a  thing  that  has  pierced  my  heart.  The  gentle 
Christ  has  been  crucified.  I  was  there,  but  could 
not  help  Him.'  And  he  described  to  the  good 
people  that  dreadful  day  in  Jerusalem,  and  they 
all  wept,  and  wept,  and  wept.  And  each  fairy 
tear  became  a  little  rude  stone  cross,  and  if  you 
go  to  that  valley — it  is  no  longer  called  the  Happy 
Valley,  but  the  Valley  of  Tears — you  can  pick  up 
little  fairy  crosses  to  this  day." 

The  boatman  said,  "God  save  us  all,  lady;  I  do 
belave  on  that  awful  day  the  fairies  did  let  fall 
their  tears,  sure  an'  how  could  they  help  it;  an' 
I  would  like  to  see  wun  of  thim  crosses." 

I  wore  one  on  a  bracelet,  and  showed  it  to  him. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  as  you  have  the  good  people 
in  your  country,  I  will  tell  you  about  the  silver 
throut. 

"  In  the  ould  ancient  times,  a  King  had  a  beau- 
tiful daughter,  who  was  to  marry  a  Prince  as 
beautiful  as  herself.  But  a  dark  Prince  loved  the 
lady,  an'  wun  day  he  up  wid  his  sword  an' 
killed  the  fair  Prince  that  was  beloved  by  the 
Princess,  an'  threw  his  body  into  the  lake.  An' 


274  HERSELF— IRELAND 

whin  the  Princess  heard  ahout  the  murder  she 
refused  to  ate,  an'  she  couldn't  slape,  an'  was  al- 
ways wanderin'  be  the  edge  of  the  lake.  They 
tried  and  tried  to  find  the  Prince  and  dragged  the 
lake  and  wanted  to  give  his  poor  body  Christian 
burial,  but  he  was  niver  more  to  be  found.  An' 
the  Princess  pined  and  pined,  an'  got  white  an' 
still  more  white,  an'  wun  day  she  didn't  die,  she 
just  disappeared.  An'  the  very  same  day,  in  the 
avenin',  a  boatman  saw  a  white  throut  swimmin' 
up  the  lake  at  night,  an'  down  the  lake  the  next 
mornin'.  An'  that  throut  had  blue  eyes  like  the 
grievin'  colleen,  an'  he  says,  '  Sure,  'tis  the  Princess 
been  turned  into  a  fish  by  a  kind  fairy  to  find  her 
thrue  luv.'  An'  from  that  day  to  this,  hundreds 
of  years,  that  silver  throut  swims  up  the  lake  in 
the  avenin',  an'  down  the  lake  in  the  mornin' — 
always,  but  wunce. 

"Wun  afthernoon  an  English  soldier,  who 
didn't  belave  in  the  Good  People  or  silver  throuts, 
whin  she  was  dramin'  caught  her  an'  took  her 
home,  and  put  her  in  a  pan  with  grase  an'  tried 
to  fry  her.  But,  glory  be  to  God,  she  wouldn't 
fry.  He  turned  her  on  this  side  and  on  that  side, 
an'  there  she  was  as  fresh  as  whin  she  came  out 
of  the  wather.  Suddenly  he  lost  his  timper,  an' 
says,  '  'Ave  you  force  me  to  it  I'll  ate  ye  alive,  but 
ate  ye  I  will.'  Wid  this  he  stuck  his  strong  Eng- 
lish fork  into  the  unfortunate  throut.  Wid  that 


KILLARNEY  275 

she  gives  a  scrame  like  a  Banshee,  an'  leps  out 
av  the  fryin'-pan,  lights  on  her  little  feet  a  lovely 
Princess  in  a  long  silver  robe,  her  golden  hair 
stramin'  all  over  it,  an'  blood  comin'  out  av  her 
side.  She  looked  at  the  soldier  wid  her  big  blue 
eyes  an'  says,  '  You  cruel  murtherer,  see  what  you 
have  done.  You  tuk  me  out  av  me  nice  cool  clane 
wather,  where  I  was  lukin'  for  me  thrue  love,  who 
wun  day  will  surely  find  me,  an'  you  thried  to  fry 
me  in  hot  soft  grase.  You  were  too  stupid  to  see 
I  wouldn't  fry,  an'  while  I  am  talkin'  to  you  an' 
puttin'  a  thousand  curses  on  to  you,  notwith- 
standin*  these  hundreds  of  years  I  have  been  thry- 
in'  to  find  me  own  thrue  love;  he  may  be  swim- 
min'  afther  me  this  blessed  minute,  an'  I  will  lose 
him  yet.  If  I  do,  I'll  grow  to  the  size  of  a  whale, 
an'  I'll  come  out  av  the  wather  an'  swallow  ye 
whole.' 

"  The  English  soldier  remimbered  Jonah  and 
his  whale,  an'  he  trimbled  like  an  aspen  lafe,  an' 
whin  the  Princess  subsided  into  a  bleedin'  fish  agin, 
he  quickly  placed  the  throut  on  a  clean  china  plate, 
dashed  down  to  the  lake  an'  put  her  back  agin 
an'  saw  her  swim  away.  An'  iver  since  thin  she 
has  a  rosy  blush  on  her  side,  where  that  murtherous 
English  fork  wint  into  her." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  caught  that  fish,"  said  Kitty; 
"  perhaps  she  would  have  become  a  beautiful 
Princess  for  me.  Maybe  now  she  would  be  sitting 


276  HERSELF— IRELAND 

in  this  boat  in  her  shining  silver  dress,  with  her 
golden  hair  flowing  about  her  like  a  golden 
mantle." 

"  I  thought,'*  I  said  to  the  boatman,  "  that  was 
a  story  of  Cong? " 

"  I  don't  know  if  they  claim  it  in  another  part 
of  Ireland,"  said  the  boatman,  frowning,  "but 
I  have  been  on  this  lake  over  forty  years,  an' 
always  I  have  seen  that  silver  throut  swimmin' 
up  in  the  mornin'  an'  down  in  the  avenin',  an' 
always  I  hear  the  same  tale  about  her." 

"  I  am  sure,"  I  said,  "  it  is  the  very  same  silver 
fish  that  inspired  Yeats  to  those  charming  verses: 

"  I  went  out  to  the  hazel  wood, 
Because  a  fire  was  in  my  head, 
And  cut  and  peeled  a  hazel  wand. 
And  hooked  a  berry  to  a  thread ; 
And  when  white  moths  were  on  the  wing, 
And  moth-like  stars  were  flickering  out, 
I  dropped  the  berry  in  a  stream 
And  caught  a  little  silver  trout. 

"  When  I  had  laid  it  on  the  floor 
I  went  to  blow  the  fire  a-flame, 
But  something  rustled  on  the  floor, 
And  something  called  me  by  my  name : 
It  had  become  a  glimmering  girl 
With  apple  blossom  in  her  hair, 
Who  called  me  by  my  name  and  ran 
And  faded  through  the  brightening  air. 


KILLARNEY  277 

"  Though  I  am  old  with  wandering 
Through  hollow  lands  and  hilly  lands, 
I  will  find  out  where  she  has  gone, 
And  kiss  her  lips  and  take  her  hands, 
And  walk  among  long  dappled  grass, 
And  pluck  till  time  and  times  are  done 
The  silver  apples  of  the  moon, 
The  golden  apples  of  the  sun. 

"  I  heard  Yeats  read  that  poem  in  America,  and 
I  could  not  resist  saying  to  him  afterwards,  '  I 
would  have  done  it  better  myself.'  Perhaps  he 
does  not  appreciate  its  beauties  as  I  do.  George 
Moore  says  he  is  no  judge  of  his  own  books,  as 
he  has  never  read  them,  and  that  when  he  has 
leisure  he  intends  to  take  a  course  of  George 
Moore." 

It  had  been  a  heavenly  day,  and  the  tempta- 
tion to  remain  on  the  lake  until  the  last  possible 
moment  was  so  great,  that  we  were  late  for  din- 
ner. But  not  so  late  as  a  humble  bride  and  groom, 
who  were  spending  their  honeymoon  at  the  Killar- 
ney  Hotel,  and  were  evidently  quite  new  to  the 
usages  of  polite  hotels.  For  the  waiter  said  that 
when  he  asked  them  whether  they  would  have 
diner  table  d'hote  or  a  la  carte  as  it  was  so  late, 
the  bridegroom  looked  for  help  towards  the  bride, 
and  when  she  gave  him  none  he  said  generously, 
"We  will  take  a  little  of  both — and  plenty  of 
gravy."  That  young  man  could  not  have  given 
a  better  augury  for  the  life's  happiness  of  his 


278  HERSELF— IRELAND 

wife,  than  wanting  not  only  gravy,  but  plenty 
of  it. 

I  find  that  simple,  artless,  straightforward, 
kindhearted  men  and  women,  with  hearty  appe- 
tites and  good  digestions,  like  plenty  of  gravy. 
It  is  an  indication  of  mental  and  physical  well- 
being.  But  the  more  complicated  part  of  human- 
ity, those  who  are  emotional  and  capricious  of 
health,  do  not  like  gravy.  It  so  soon  gets  cold,  and 
resolves  itself  into  a  grey  solidity.  Gravy  seems  to 
me  a  defiance  to  digestion  unless  you  have  an  un- 
hesitating appetite,  and  can  eat  without  dalliance. 
I  am  too  complex  in  temperament,  indifferent  of 
digestion,  and  dally  too  long  over  my  food  for 
gravy.  I  remember  at  quite  an  early  age,  when 
my  parents  implored  me  to  eat  meat,  and  I  much 
preferred  rice,  that  I  would  say,  "A  little  piece 
of  roast  beef,  but "  (unlike  the  bridegroom  of 
Killarney)  "no  gravy."  And  since  that  "table 
d'hote,  a  la  carte,  and  plenty  of  gravy,"  I  can 
invariably  tell  by  looking  at  people  whether  they 
like  gravy. 

The  young,  straightforward,  hearty,  burly, 
manly;  the  joyous,  the  frank,  the  healthy,  the 
strenuous,  the  up-early  big  breakfast  people,  all 
delight  in  gravy,  "  and  plenty  of  it."  But  the 
sad,  the  sorrowful,  the  uncertain,  the  analytic, 
the  disillusioned,  the  doubting  and  the  delicate,  all 
eschew  gravy. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LIMERICK 

A  STORY  of  Limerick  is  of  two  English  ladies  who 
were  talking  in  loud  tones  in  the  street.  One  of 
them  said  to  the  other,  "I've  travelled  all  over 
Europe,  in  many  countries,  and" — looking  about 
her — "  I've  never  seen  such  dirty  people  as  the 
Irish." 

An  old  fisherwoman  following  behind  with  her 
basket  overtook  them  and  said  with  her  eyes  flash- 
ing, "  Maybe  'tis  thrue  yez  have  thravelled  the 
wurrld  over,  but  whin  yez  thravel  down  to  hell 
ye'll  find  no  dirty  Irish  there." 

Kitty  and  I  stopped  at  a  more  than  question- 
ably clean  hotel  in  Limerick,  but  the  principles 
advocated  by  the  proprietor  were  not  only  clean, 
but  almost  obsolete  in  chaste  purity. 

Lamenting  the  more  recent  history  of  Ireland, 
he  said,  "  I  wint  to  school  with  Charley  Parnell," — 
it  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  heard  that  stern 
personality  spoken  of  as  "  Charley," — "  and  his 
thruble  was  as  if  me  own  brother  had  made  a 
mistake.  Ah,  'twas  the  greatest  pity  in  the 
wurrld,  for  Charley  was,  from  the  time  he  was  a 
bhoy,  wun  of  thim  who  could  make  you  do  what- 

279 


280  HERSELF— IRELAND 

iver  he  wanted.  He  carried  power  in  his  eye. 
And  to  think  that  in  the  end  he  was  entirely  put 
under  by  a  woman.  I  stood  by  him,  but  'twas  for 
the  sake  of  Ireland,  I  don't  hould  with  thim 
things " — he  waved  his  arm  comprehensively 
around  the  shabby,  disordered,  dusty  room,  as  if  it 
was  sacrosant — "  and — I  don't  have  anny  of  thim 
things  goin'  on  here.  It's  thrue  'tis  a  hotel,  but 
'tis  also  thrue  that  I  kape  it  unpolluted.  And 
while  I  live  'twill  be  clane,  'twill  be  dacint. 

"A  little  time  ago  two  min  and  wun  woman 
came  to  the  hotel — I  niver  like  thim  Threes.  Two 
women  and  wun  man,  or  two  min  and  wun  woman 
— and  whin  I  see  thim,  I  take  notice.  Well,  this 
last  Three  was  unasyly  gay,  an'  she  with  a  skirt 
unchristian  short,  an'  a  bodice  unchristian  low,  an' 
they  was  laughin'  and  talkin'  an'  pretindin'  to  be  so 
friendly  together,  an'  there  was  plenty  of  drink  to 
the  fore,  with  champagne  corks  poppin'.  But 
the  laughin'  was  too  bould,  'twasn't  natural,  an' 
both  the  min  looked  hard  whin  they  looked  at  each 
other,  an'  the  woman  looked  soft  at  wun  an'  sly 
at  the  other,  an*  'twas  him  that  was  her  husband. 

"  An'  thin  come  the  avenin'  when  I  tuk  part. 
'  Twas  after  the  make-believe  merriment  the  three 
began  to  yawn,  an'  twasn't  long  before  the  two 
min  wint  upstairs  to  their  bedrooms.  An'  thin 
the  lady  wint  to  hers,  an'  I  follyed  her,  an*  found 
her  standin'  with  her  hand  on  the  knob  of  a  door. 


LIMERICK  281 

An'  God  save  us  all  it  wasn't  her  own  door  knob, 
nor  yit  her  husband's,  so  I  stepped  close  to  her,  an' 
I  brought  down  the  flat  of  my  hand,  an'  I  slapped 
her.  I  slapped  that  painted  hussy  as  she  had  not 
been  slapped  since  she  was  a  bad  little  gur-rle. 
Thin  the  doors  opened,  an'  the  two  min  an'  me  an' 
the  woman  all  stood  lukin'  at  each  other.  An' 
thim  two  min  didn't  dare  ax  me  why.  I  was  so 
burstin'  to  tell  thim  I  breathed  like  a  man  snorin', 
an'  that  was  the  only  sound.  Whin  I  found  the 
talkin'  was  to  be  left  to  me,  I  said,  '  I  kape  a 
dacint  roof  over  my  head,  an'  over  the  heads  of 
thim  that  stays  under  it,  an'  if  they  are  not  dacint 
so  much  the  worse  for  thim.'  I  luked  at  the 
woman,  one  cheek  was  blazin'  red,  an'  the  other 
snow  white.  Thin  I  tuk  her  by  the  arm  an'  handed 
her  to  her  husband,  who  was  the  poorest  spirited 
of  the  lot,  an'  I  pointed  to  her  reproved  cheek,  an' 
I  said  to  the  likes  of  him,  '  If  you  had  been  half  a 
man  you'd  have  done  it  yourself,  but  I  done  it 
for  you.'  An'  thin  I  told  the  wun  who  was  not  her 
husband,  I  could  part  with  his  company  that  min- 
ute, an'  maybe  I  done  a  good  job  for  I  shamed 
that  lot  of  Threes  annyway.  They  was  high  up 
in  the  wur-rld,  but  high  or  low  thim  things  don't 
go  on  in  this  hotel." 

An  arrival  interrupted  this  thrilling  conversa- 
tion, and  I  said  to  Kitty,  "  That  militant  defender 
of  virtue  doesn't  know  it,  but  his  methods  are 


282  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Biblical.  The  woman  was  not  stoned.  She  was 
slapped." 

Kitty  laughed.  "  Poor  woman,  she  was  not  only 
slapped  but  she  lost  her  admirer;  he  could  never 
forget  that  sordid  episode,  it  killed  all  romance — 
you  may  be  sure  of  that." 

We  were  much  struck  with  the  beauty  of  the 
women  of  Limerick.  The  fashionably  dressed,  and 
the  poor,  with  shawls  over  their  heads  and  bare 
feet,  were  equally  good-looking.  In  the  hot  sum- 
mer weather  these  thick  blankety  shawls  which 
envelope  them  must  be  extremely  uncomfortable. 
I  wonder  that  some  Manchester  manufacturer  does 
not  make  large  cheap  cotton  shawls  for  the  Irish 
market;  they  would  be  certain  to  have  a  quick 
sale.  Both  the  women  and  men  have  a  curiously 
southern  appearance.  They  are  tall  and  grace- 
ful, and  the  men  particularly  have  a  good  length 
of  limb,  flat  backs,  and  supple  waists,  like  my 
own  Texas  cowboys.  Their  speech  is  soft,  with  a 
little  drawl,  and  a  comforting  kindly  intonation. 
The  tallest  policemen  in  Ireland  are  said  to  come 
from  the  South  and  West,  and  many  of  them  are 
Limerick  boys. 

We  passed  an  old  man  in  a  donkey  car  driven  by 
a  young  peasant  girl,  who  was  as  vividly  coloured 
as  a  humming-bird.  Her  skin  was  startlingly  red 
and  white,  her  eyes  dark  blue  with  black  lashes. 
She  was  smiling,  and  her  teeth  were  strong  and 


LIMERICK  283 

white — an  unusual  beauty  in  Ireland — her  shawl 
had  fallen  off  her  shoulders,  and  her  little  head 
was  covered  in  thick  plaits  of  glossy  black  hair. 
The  Limerick  women  have  a  good  upright  car- 
riage, as  if  they  carried  buckets  of  water  on 
their  heads  like  the  women  of  the  Canary  Islands. 

There  is  no  town  in  Ireland  that  has  a  more 
interesting  history  than  that  of  Limerick,  con- 
nected as  it  is  with  Sarsfield,  Cornwall,  and  the 
celebrated  Treaty,  which  after  Sarsfield  with  his 
12,000  good  men  and  true  had  left  the  country, 
was  broken  by  England — alas!  if  it  had  been  the 
only  broken  treaty — the  situation  is  beautiful,  be- 
ing surrounded  on  all  sides  with  splendid  moun- 
tains which  shelter  it  from  cold  winds,  and  the 
Golden  Vale — said  to  be  one  of  the  most  fertile 
districts  in  Ireland — dips  down  between  the  lovely 
hills,  and  provides  fine  grazing  ground  for 
cattle. 

The  broad  Shannon  on  its  way  to  the  sea  be- 
comes, near  the  town,  a  series  of  lakes,  gloriously 
reflecting  clouds  and  sky.  There  has  evidently 
been  no  plan  in  building  the  city,  it  has  developed 
from  a  village;  and  there  are  pleasant  curves  and 
unexpected  winding  streets,  and  old  gabled  houses, 
suggestive  of  those  in  Flemish  Belgium. 

The  Cathedral  of  St.  Mary's  was  built  in  the 
twelfth  century;  it  still  stands,  and  the  interior 
contains  memorials  of  interest.  In  the  chancel 


284  HERSELF— IRELAND 

is  a  monument  to  Donagh  O'Brien,  Earl  of 
Thomond.  It  was  restored  by  the  Earl  of  Lim- 
erick, and  is  now  rich  in  the  coloured  marbles  of 
Ireland.  The  bells,  said  to  rival  those  of  Shan- 
don  in  sweetness  of  tone,  were  made  by  an  Italian 
for  a  convent  in  the  Appenines,  and  he  loved  them 
so  he  lived  within  sound  of  their  chimes.  Money 
difficulties  arose,  and  to  meet  them  the  Mother 
Abbess  sold  the  bells. 

The  maker  also  had  suffered  in  fortune,  and, 
broken-hearted,  he  became  a  wanderer  over  the 
world.  The  law  of  coincidence  brought  him  to 
Ireland,  and  as  he  sailed  up  the  broad  Shannon  in 
the  twilight  of  a  golden  day,  the  air  was  filled 
with  music,  and  he  heard  once  again  his  beloved 
bells.  Ireland  faded  away;  he  was  in  Italy 
again,  at  the  entrance  of  the  long  white  convent. 
The  scent  of  olive  trees  was  in  the  air.  The  joy  of 
his  youth  returned.  The  bells  rang  out  the  An- 
gelus  with  a  divine  sweetness,  and  on  their  delicate 
chime  his  soul  floated  aloft.  When  they  landed  he 
was  found  dead. 

King  John's  Castle  is  another  landmark,  having 
been  built  in  1210.  It  is  a  wonderfully  picturesque 
Norman  fortress,  flanked  by  two  drum  towers. 
The  walls  are  ten  feet  thick,  cannonades  having 
made  superficial  indentations,  and  through  all  the 
centuries  it  has  been  used  as  a  garrison.  Thomond 
Bridge  springs  from  its  gate,  and  connects  the 


> 


LIMERICK  285 

English  town  with  County  Clare.  In  1839  it  was 
rebuilt  with  splendid  broad  spans,  which  are  now 
daily  traversed.  At  the  west  end  of  the  bridge  the 
famous  Treaty  Stone  of  1691  was  set  upon  its 
present  pedestal  in  1865,  the  year  that  ended  our 
great  Civil  War  in  America — and  it  bears  the 
inscription  applied  to  Carthage: 

"  Urbs  antiqua  fuit  studiiesque  asperrima  belli.*' 

The  lovely  little  Castle  of  the  Lax  Weir,  all 
overgrown  with  golden  lichen  and  pale  moss,  is  in 
the  centre  of  the  trap  for  salmon  and  eels,  and  a 
very  ancient  regulation  connected  with  it  still 
exists.  At  night  a  boat  dimly  lighted  is  moored 
below  the  Castle  Weir,  and  from  it  watchmen  call 
every  hour  of  the  night.  In  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury there  were  famous  gardens  in  Limerick,  and 
even  yet  the  flowers  bloom  with  luxuriance,  and 
the  raspberries  of  a  monster  size  have  a  flavour 
like  that  of  a  juicy  flower. 

Limerick  lace  is  known  all  over  the  world,  and 
of  late  there  has  been  a  revival  of  the  tambour 
and  run  lace.  Old  Limerick  lace  was  white  until 
time  turned  it  yellow,  but  now  that  a  cream  net 
and  thread  are  used  in  the  making,  it  is  far  more 
becoming.  If  a  few  ladies  of  influence  would  get 
Parisian  dressmakers  to  recognise  its  flattering 
qualities  this  lace  would  have  a  fashionable  and 


286  HERSELF— IRELAND 

prosperous  future.  There  is  no  more  charming 
veil  for  a  bride  than  a  full,  clinging,  soft  diaphan- 
ous square  of  Limerick  lace. 

Besides  lace-making  there  are  other  industries. 
Limerick  hams  are  celebrated  all  over  the  world. 
Limerick  butter,  made  from  the  cows  that  feed 
in  the  Golden  Vale,  is  unequalled;  and  Limerick 
bacon  is  celebrated  for  the  manner  in  which  it  fries 
with  a  crisp  dryness.  That  is  the  test  of  all  others 
of  good  bacon.  The  longer  the  war  lasts,  the 
wetter  the  bacon  seems  to  be.  A  good  deal  of 
inferior  bacon  masquerades  under  the  name  of 
Limerick,  but  the  genuine  article  is  really  the 
best  in  the  world. 

With  its  splendid  situation  on  the  Shannon 
Limerick  at  one  time  commanded  a  prosperous 
trade;  it  is  close  to  the  broad  Atlantic,  and  some 
future  day  it  should  become  a  port  to  America. 
That  is  part  of  my  vision  and  dream  for  Ireland. 

The  old  shops  with  their  prints,  glass,  china,  bits 
of  jewelry,  silver  snuff-boxes,  and  furniture  are 
seductive.  A  persuasive  salesman  very  nearly  in- 
duced Kitty  to  buy  a  hospitable  silver  teapot, 
suitable  in  size  for  a  small  garden  party.  It 
seemed  to  me  this  large  object,  stored  away  in 
the  limited  kit  of  a  V.A.D.,  was  an  unnecessary 
possession,  so  I  intervened.  The  quaint  little  man 
then  exhibited  various  articles  for  my  delectation, 
a  piping  Pan  of  bronze,  Indian  silver,  Nankin 


LIMERICK  287 

ware,  and  as  a  last  hope  he  dangled  the  locket 
of  a  queen  to  dazzle  me. 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  none  of  these  things  tempt  me." 

"  You  never  can  tell,"  he  said,  "  what  will  take 
the  fancy  of  people  who  like  old  stuff." 

"  Quite  true ;  my  friend  Hicks,  of  Dublin,  goes 
so  far  as  to  say  that  people  who  buy  curios  are  not 
responsible  for  their  actions."  What  an  eerie  hit- 
the-nail-on-the-head  laugh  that  man  gave;  he  had 
so  often  to  his  own  advantage  proved  Hicks' 
theory. 

In  another  musty,  dusty  shop  we  found  an 
amazingly  interesting  human  document.  It  was 
an  old  scrapbook  of  the  O'Grady  family,  collected 
and  edited  by  an  unusually  talented  amateur 
artist,  Miss  Louisa  O'Grady.  Her  water-colours, 
— I  bought  one — a  fair-haired  little  girl  holding 
a  grey-eyed  little  kitten — painted  with  a  touch  as 
light  as  a  butterfly,  were  finished  with  exquisite 
care,  and  somehow  she  had  managed  to  convey 
in  her  work  her  own  personality,  that  of  a  gentle- 
woman of  taste  and  refinement.  I  imagine  her 
with  a  sweet  oval  face  framed  in  pale-brown  silky 
hair,  a  slim  figure,  and  slender  hands;  a  dress  of 
lavender  muslin  finished  at  neck  and  wrists  with 
frills  of  English  thread  lace,  a  lavender  ribbon 
around  her  waist  fastened  by  a  flat  bow,  and  long 
flowing  ends. 

In  this  honoured  book  of  the  O'Gradys  there 


288  HERSELF— IRELAND 

were  letters  from  Kings  and  Queens,  Statesmen 
and  Ambassadors,  poets  and  opera  singers,  a  neat 
missive  and  a  very  beautiful  youthful  photograph 
of  Patti.  A  lovely  signed  photograph — showing 
her  splendid  coronet  of  braids,  more  beautiful  than 
any  jewelled  coronet  she  ever  wore — of  the  un- 
fortunate Elizabeth  of  Austria,  who  loved  Ireland, 
Irish  people,  and  above  all  Irish  horses.  Letters 
and  a  photograph  of  Garibaldi.  Little  sketches  of 
famous  artists.  Lovely  portraits  of  her  family  and 
friends  by  Louisa  O'Grady,  caricatures  sent  her 
by  the  artists  of  Punch.  Letters  from  great 
actors.  A  little  verse  by  Alfred  Tennyson,  and  a 
long  and  well-written  letter  from  Arthur  Mac- 
Murrough  Kavanagh — one  of  the  heroes  of  my 
youth  who  remains  a  hero  still. 

Admiring  as  I  do  bodily  perfection,  having  seen 
the  power  of  beauty,  and  the  supreme  advantage 
that  a  handsome  appearance  gives  a  man  or  a 
woman, — even  the  genius  of  the  greatest  artist  is 
enhanced  by  a  lovely  exterior, — there  is  but  one 
thing  I  admire  more.  The  triumph  of  mind  over 
matter.  Spirit  and  intelligence  rising  superior  to 
its  cramped  and  imperfect  abode.  There  must  be 
such  an  array  of  fine  qualities  to  do  this.  A  great 
sweetness  of  nature  to  be  reconciled  to  deformity; 
unintermittent  courage  to  go  forward  and  meet 
life  as  those  well  equipped  for  the  fray;  humility 
that  can  say,  "Why  not  I  as  well  as  another?" 


LIMERICK  289 

and  a  splendid  pride  to  conquer  in  spite  of  being 
different  from  other  men. 

Arthur  MacMurrough  Kavanagh  possessed  all 
these  qualities,  and  more.  It  is  true  that  he  had 
blue  blood  in  his  veins,  and  could  trace  his  parent- 
age to  the  Kings  of  Leinster,  but  even  the  fighting 
heritage  of  his  ancestors  must  have  quailed  at  a 
misfortune  such  as  his,  for  he  was  born  with  only 
the  rudiments  of  arms  and  legs.  And  yet,  with 
never-flagging  courage  and  ingenious  perseverance 
he  did  all,  and  much  more  than  many  normal  men. 
His  body  was  vigorous,  and  by  athletic  exercises 
he  developed  his  stumps  of  arms,  until  they  be- 
came as  strong  as  steel,  and  lightning  quick  in 
movement.  Strapped  in  a  basket-chair,  with  the 
reins  twined  about  his  wrists,  the  whip  held  close 
to  his  side,  he  rode  to  hounds  and  took  fences 
and  walls  with  the  boldest  riders.  On  one  occa- 
sion his  chair  seat  slipped  and  he  was  dragged 
head  downwards  along  the  ground,  but  this  dan- 
gerous accident  did  not  prevent  his  riding  again. 

He  was  an  expert  fisherman,  supplying  the 
play  of  the  wrist  by  dexterous  and  well-timed 
jerks  with  his  stumps  of  arms.  He  was  a  good 
shot  both  in  cover  and  in  the  open,  resting  the  gun 
upon  his  left  arm  stump  and  jerking  the  trigger 
with  his  right.  He  was  an  experienced  yachtsman, 
and  wrote  an  account  of  a  cruise  off  the  coast  of 
Albania;  and  he  became  a  fair  amateur  draughts- 


290  HERSELF— IRELAND 

man  and  water-colour  painter,  while  his  writing — 
it  cannot  be  called  handwriting,  as  he  had  no 
hands — was  round,  legible,  and  full  of  character. 

He  was  educated  by  private  tutors  in  Ireland, 
France,  and  Rome,  and  in  his  youth  travelled  to 
Egypt,  to  Asia  Minor,  to  Sinai,  Jerusalem,  and 
Beyrout.  Returning  to  Ireland  in  1848  while 
Smith  O'Brien's  rebellion  was  in  progress,  he 
joined  the  Volunteer  Scouts,  and  was  on  active 
service,  riding  alone  oftentimes  all  night.  His 
physical  disadvantages  for  him  had  ceased  to  exist. 
He  not  only  lived  as  other  men,  but  as  an  active 
and  vigorous  man.  He  could  wheel  himself  about 
the  house  in  a  chair,  but  for  walking  he  used  the 
legs  of  his  servant,  who  carried  him  on  his  back. 

At  the  end  of  the  rebellion  he  started  with  his 
eldest  brother  to  India,  by  way  of  Russia,  Persia, 
and  Mosul.  Visiting  Nineveh  on  to  Bagdad,  and 
riding  through  a  perilous  pass  to  Shirez  he  saw  the 
mule  before  him  tumble  over  a  precipice,  but  his 
wonderful  nerve  did  not  fail  him,  and  by  a  quick 
jerk  he  reined  his  animal  to  hug  the  mountain 
pass  and  thus  saved  his  life. 

In  India  he  hunted  big  game  and  killed  a  tiger, 
carried  despatches  in  the  Arungbad  district,  and 
held  a  post  in  Poonah.  The  death  of  his  eldest 
brother  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  return  to 
Ireland.  There  is  an  ancient  unwritten  law  that 
no  head  of  a  clan  must  be  imperfect  in  body,  but 


LIMERICK  291 

the  dominant  courage  and  indomitable  manliness 
of  Kavanagh  made  him  acceptable  to  the  Ka- 
vanaghs,  and  he  proved  a  more  than  creditable 
chief  to  the  old  traditions  He  was  not  without 
the  love  of  women.  His  mother  had  been  his 
constant  companion  and  friend,  and  his  cousin, 
Frances  Mary,  a  beautiful  girl  who  had  other 
suitors  refused  them  to  marry  him.  They  had  sons 
and  daughters,  and  he  settled  down  to  the  life  of 
a  landlord  with  a  high  sense  of  responsibility  to 
his  tenants  and  to  his  country.  He  rebuilt  the 
villages  of  Borris  and  Ballyragget  on  plans  drawn 
out  by  himself,  which  were  of  such  excellence  they 
won  the  Royal  Dublin  Society's  Medal.  As  a  Jus- 
tice of  the  Peace  he  administered  justice  in  the 
courtyard  of  Borris  House,  sitting  in  his  chair, 
and  there  he  mended  quarrels,  made  up  differences 
between  neighbours  and  smoothed  away  obstacles 
to  wavering  marriages.  After  his  election  to  Par- 
liament, when  the  House  was  in  session  he  was 
always  in  his  seat,  and  though  he  spoke  rarely  it 
was  to  the  point,  and  he  was  a  valued  and  ener- 
getic member  of  the  Conservative  Party. 

His  active  spirit  urging  him  to  unceasing  work 
was  too  much  for  his  incomplete  physique,  and  he 
did  not  live  beyond  middle-age.  But  what  matter? 
He  lived  long  enough  to  show  what  a  completely 
intrepid  spirit  can  accomplish.  Without  arms  or 
legs,  or  feet  or  hands,  he  was  sportsman,  fisher- 


292  HERSELF— IRELAND 

man,  draughtsman,  traveller,  writer,  and  a  broad- 
spirited  man  of  public  affairs. 

His  sanity  must  have  been  perfect,  his  intelli- 
gence normal,  and  his  self -consciousness  small  to 
enable  him  to  live — cruelly  hampered  by  circum- 
stance— as  though  he  were  equal  to  other  men. 
He  was  never  spectacular  or  dramatic,  but  his 
life,  sincere  and  simple,  called  forth  the  highest 
moral  and  physical  courage  possible  to  man.  And 
though  many  Irish  heroes  have  won  laurels  as 
statesmen,  patriots,  and  soldiers,  none  have  de- 
served a  crown  more  than  this  valiant  warrior 
who  so  gallantly  carried  his  cross  of  defeat  under 
the  banner  of  Victory. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  PLEASANT  TOUR 

WE  left  Limerick  on  a  pleasant  warm  day, 
travelled  third-class  to  Parknasilla,  and  happened 
on  an  entertaining  company.  An  amiable  old 
priest,  two  farmers,  and  later  a  third  entered  the 
carriage.  Greeted  with  enthusiasm,  he  was  evi- 
dently a  well-known  wit. 

"  And  have  you  paid  your  rint  yet? "  asked  one 
of  his  friends. 

"  Begob  an'  I  have  not,  an'  'tis  me  Christian 
duty  to  me  neighbour  an'  me  landlord  not  to  do  it. 
Shure  an'  if  I  paid  him  his  rint  wouldn't  he  be 
off  to  London  to  spind  it,  and  then  he  moight  run 
away  with  a  London  beauty,  an'  get  himself  into 
the  divorce  court.  Do  you  think  I  am  goin'  to 
be  exposin'  a  man  with  siven  childer  an'  a  wife  to 
such  timptation? " 

The  priest,  who  took  snuff,  said,  "Don't  you 
think  you  are  taking  too  much  time  by  the  fore- 
lock, Jerry?  " 

"  Ah,  Father,  'tis  foresight  distinguishes  the 
white  man  from  the  savage,  an'  'tis  foresight  is 
keepin'  me  landlord  from  ruin." 


294  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Our  tender-hearted  tenant  and  his  friends,  to 
our  regret,  left  us  at  the  next  station.  The  motor 
drive  from  the  village  of  Parknasilla  to  the  sea- 
shore, through  beautiful  country,  was  delightful, 
rain  had  laid  the  dust,  the  trees  were  dripping 
diamond  drops,  and  the  shadows  were  lengthen- 
ing, but  the  sun  shone  brilliantly.  We  passed  a 
cottage  which  seemed  to  have  stepped  out  of  a 
highly  coloured  picture  postcard.  It  was  freshly 
whitewashed,  with  a  thatched  roof  of  golden  straw, 
two  tall  fuchsias,  red  and  purple,  grew  on  either 
side  of  the  green  door,  and  down  the  flagged 
path  were  rows  of  poppies  and  white  lilies. 
Daisies  besprinkled  the  vivid  green  grass  in  the 
little  garden,  and  the  low  white  wall  was  over- 
grown with  scarlet  runners  and  passion  flowers. 
With  the  sunshine  intensifying  the  brilliant  colour 
scheme  of  scarlet,  white  and  green,  it  was  amaz- 
ingly pretty. 

Parknasilla  itself  is  a  perfect  beauty  spot.  The 
hotel,  originally  the  house  of  a  bishop,  has  been 
enlarged  and  converted  into  a  most  comfortable 
abode.  It  is  situated  on  a  low  cliff  softly  rolling 
down  to  an  inlet  from  the  sea.  The  various  islands 
dotted  about,  and  the  gently  lapping  waves  of  blue 
water  give  the  impression  of  a  lake.  In  the  dis- 
tance is  a  long  line  of  opalescent  mountains,  and 
there  are  many  acres  of  lovely  woods,  winding 
walks,  and  little  rustic  bridges  thrown  across  unex- 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  295 

pected  channels  of  sea  water.  The  vegetation  is 
boldly  luxurious;  with  proper  care  even  tropical 
shrubs  and  trees  would  grow  in  this  rich  and  fertile 
country.  The  green  of  the  trees,  the  blue  of 
the  sky,  the  pink  and  mauve  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  the  flowers  opulent  in  size  and  vivid 
in  colour  fill  the  eye  continually  with  surprising 
beauty. 

While  we  were  there  an  officer  from  the  Front 
arrived  suffering  from  shattered  nerves,  the  result 
of  shell-shock.  As  a  boy  he  had  visited  the  Bishop, 
fished  from  the  islands,  and  sailed  a  boat  as  far 
as  Valentia,  and  his  first  consciousness  after  being 
blown  up  was  an  intense  longing  for  the  stillness 
and  greenness  of  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood.  When 
he  got  to  London  he  said  to  his  wife,  "  If  I  am 
ever  to  get  well  it  will  only  be  in  that  soft,  kind, 
healing  air."  Expecting  to  be  in  Ireland  for  some 
months,  they  had  looked  at  two  or  three  houses 
which  were  to  be  let  on  the  way.  A  picturesque 
place  had  the  bathroom  at  the  top  of  the  house. 
Captain  Magillicuddy  noticed  a  tap  for  cold  water, 
but  no  outlet  for  it,  and  he  asked  the  butler  left  in 
charge,  "  After  letting  in  the  water  and  taking  a 
bath,  how  is  it  emptied? " 

"  Sure  the  master  used  to  toss  it  out  of 
the  window,  he  said  the  water  was  good  for 
the  flowers,  and  the  exercise  was  good  for 
him." 


296  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Mrs.  Magillicuddy  thought  a  man  must  be  in 
the  pink  of  condition  to  daily  empty  a  bath-tub,  so 
they  decided  not  to  take  the  house. 

At  the  end  of  a  pleasant  lazy  walk  at  Parkna- 
silla  we  thought  to  try  a  more  vigorous  climate 
and  moved  on  to  Mallaranny.  It  was  not  so 
beautiful  as  Parknasilla,  although  any  place  where 
there  are  mountains  and  sea,  and  a  wide  open 
view,  and  thick  hedges  of  fuchsia,  and  fields  of 
magenta  heather  must  be  beautiful.  The  air  is 
invigorating,  and  there  were  pleasant  walks,  and  a 
recruiting  office  where  they  had  not  recruited  any- 
thing except  a  snow-white  parrot  with  a  pale 
yellow  lining  to  his  tail,  a  crescent  of  blue  feathers 
around  his  eyes,  and  a  pink  top-knot.  He  was 
called  James,  and  said  with  cutting  distinctness, 
"  Give  James  bread  and  but-ter."  Two  puppies, 
a  kitten,  and  a  bachelor  guinea-pig  finished  the 
innocent  recruits. 

The  beautiful  island  of  Achill  is  not  many  miles 
away,  and  we  spent  a  glorious  day  there.  Many 
jarveys  beset  us  at  the  station,  there  were  several 
younger  drivers  and  faster  horses  that  we  might 
have  taken  for  our  long  drive,  but  we  could  not 
resist  the  blue  eyes  of  an  old  man,  who  assured 
us  that  his  horse  was  good  for  any  number  of 
miles.  So  we  mounted  the  car  and  started  for  the 
grand  tour.  The  strong  sunshine  and  the  crystal- 
line air  revealed  all  the  wild  beauty  of  Achill.  The 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  297 

undulating  shore,  the  white  cliffs,  the  blue  Atlantic 
with  its — that  day — kind  waves  and  white  caps 
rolling  over  the  yellow  sands.  The  fisherwomen 
in  blue  bodices  and  scarlet  homespun  skirts — in 
future,  unfortunately  they  will  be  white,  as  the  red 
dye  came  from  Germany — gathering  Carrigean 
moss,  which  makes  the  best  gelatine,  and  latterly 
the  soft,  clean,  jelly-like  substance  impregnated 
with  salt  has  been  found  a  valuable  antiseptic  for 
wounds. 

"Isn't  it  wonderful?"  said  Kitty.  "I  would 
like  every  artist  I  know  to  come  to  Achill.  Did 
you  ever  see  so  much  sea,  and  mountain,  and  sky 
before?  It  looks  as  if  all  the  doors  of  the  world 
were  open." 

"  To-day,"  I  said,  "  it  is  heavenly,  but  the  sea 
can  be  terrible  here.  It  was  off  the  coast  of  Achill 
that  the  Children  of  Lir,  when  they  were  swans, 
suffered  their  worst  hardships,  and  Katherine 
Tynan  wrote  her  beautiful  maternal  poem  of  that 
period  of  their  lives: 

"  But  alas !  for  my  swans,  with  the  human  nature, 

Sick  with  human  longings,  starved  with  human  ties, 
With  their  hearts  all  human,  cramped  in  a  bird's  stature, 

And  the  human  weeping  in  the  bird's  soft  eyes. 
Never  shall  my  swans  build  nests  in  some  green  river, 

Never  fly  to  southward  in  the  autumn  grey, 
Rear  no  tender  children,  love  no  mates  for  ever, 

Robbed  alike  of  birds'  joys  and  of  man's  are  they. 


298  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"  Dews  are  in  the  clear  air,  and  the  roselight  paling, 

Over  sands  and  sedges  shines  the  evening  star, 
And  the  moon's  disk  high  in  heaven  is  sailing, 

Silvered  all  the  spear-heads  of  the  rushes  are — 
Housed  warm  are  all  things  as  the  night  grows  colder, 

Water-fowl  and  sky-fowl  dreamless  in  the  nest, 
But  the  swans  go  drifting,  drooping  wings  and  shoulder 

Cleaving  the  still  waters  where  the  fishes  rest." 

"Look!"  said  Kitty,  "there  are  swans,  per- 
haps you  have  called  back  the  Children  of 
Lir." 

"  No,"  said  the  old  man,  "  those  are  big  gulls 
floating  on  the  sea.  It  is  quiet  now,  but  in  the 
winter  when  a  strong  wind  blows  over  the  Atlantic, 
the  waves  rise  so  high  they  look  like  blue  moun- 
tains capped  with  snow." 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  colour?"  asked  Kitty. 
"  Look  at  those  black  cliffs  standing  with  their 
feet  in  blue  water,  the  green  grass  on  the 
level  above  them,  the  hollows  full  of  purple 
shadows,  tke  brown  road  like  a  ribbon  winding 
along,  and  that  donkey-cart  of  velvet  turf  driven 
by  a  woman  in  a  scarlet  skirt.  What  a  picture ! " 

We  had  been  sitting  by  the  sea  eating  our  lunch, 
and  when  we  mounted  the  car  again  the  old  jarvey 
turned  his  head  and  asked  if  I  was  an  American 
lady. 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "I  am  from  the  South." 

"  Then  you  will  like  to  know  there's  not  a  cot- 


IN  HOTEL  GARDEN,  PARKNASILLA 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  299 

tage  in  Achill  Island  but  gets  silver  from  your 
country.  Some  of  thim  more,  some  of  thim  less, 
but  all  of  thim  gets  it,  an'  if  they  didn't  wirristhrue 
they  would  starve  in  the  winter.  There's  not  often 
an  empty  letther  from  across  the  sea,  not  often,  an* 
how  they  do  be  looked  for.  This  horse  was  bought 
with  American  money.  Annie  O'Brien  sint  it  to 
me." 

"  And  who  is  Annie  O'Brien?  " 

"  She's  my  daughter.  All  my  childer  is  in 
America,  ivery  wun,  only  me  an'  herself's  left  in 
Achill  now." 

"  And  the  horse,"  I  said;  "  she's  homefolks." 

"  Ach  sure  an'  she  is  that,  an'  the  wise  wun  she 
is.  There  isn't  a  craythur  in  Achill  that  she  don't 
be  on  spakin'  terms  wid.  An'  well — as  she's  a 
lady  I  won't  tell  her  age.  Annyhow,  she's  as 
active  and  sure  on  her  feet  as  a  goat." 

"  Where  is  Annie  O'Brien? "  I  asked. 

"She  is  in  wun  of  thim  great  hotels  in  the 
town  of  Cleveland.  She  ain't  just  a  chambermaid 
you  know,  she's  away  beyant  that.  She's  some 
kind  of  a  manager  an'  she  makes  good  money.  It 
was  she  sint  for  the  next  wun,  an'  so  wun  by  wun 
they  left  us.  But  for  the  war  two  of  thim  did 
be  comin'  back  this  summer.  Achill  looks  bare  an' 
lonely  to  you  maybe,  but  people  born  to  it  drame 
of  it;  whin  they  go  away,  a  sickness  for  it  comes 
over  thim,  an'  they  do  be  comin'  back.  You  see 


300  HERSELF— IRELAND 

that  house  we  are  passin',  that's  a  Yankee 
house." 

"A  real  Yankee?"  I  asked. 

"  Well,  half  and  half,"  the  jarvey  said.  "  He 
played  about  here  till  he  was  ten.  The  best  swim- 
mer among  the  lads,  an'  beginnin'  to  be  a  hurler, 
too,  young  as  he  was.  Thin  his  father  tuk  his 
family  an'  wint  to  America.  The  boy  had  a  likin' 
for  machinery,  an'  he  invinted  an'  improved  some 
cog  to  a  wheel,  an'  as  soon  as  he  made  enough  he 
did  come  back  to  Achill  an'  brought  a  Yankee  wife 
an'  a  Yankee  bath-tub  wid  him." 

"  And  did  he  build  his  house  with  two  stories 
and  plant  those  nice  hollyhocks? " 

"  He  did  that,  an'  it's  him  that's  got  the  hands 
on  him,  for  he  can  do  about  annything,  an'  his 
wife,  too.  They  got  all  the  furniture  up  from 
Dublin.  Oh,  it's  a  grand  Yankee  house,  an'  thim 
two  does  be  very  kind  to  the  poor." 

"  Don't  they  ever  want  to  go  back  to  America?  " 

"  Divil  a  bit,  lady,  for  herself  lives  for  himself, 
an'  he  lives  for  the  swimmin',  an'  hurlin',  an' 
fishin'.  The  surf  must  be  mountains  high  for  him 
not  to  ride  it." 

A  little  further  on  we  passed  a  freshly  white- 
washed cottage  with  sunflowers,  gillyflowers,  and 
white  pinks  growing  in  the  patch  of  ground  in 
front  of  the  door.  A  woman  with  a  broad  face  and 
bright  dark  eyes,  dressed  in  a  blue  bodice  and  the 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  301 

red  skirt  of  the  island,  was  weeding  the  garden. 
She  looked  up  with  a  pleasant  smile,  and  the  old 
man  stopped  for  a  friendly  chat  with  her  in 
Irish. 

"  That  wun,"  he  said,  when  we  finally  trotted 
down  the  road,  "  has  been  to  America,  but  it  was 
just  to  see  the  land  an'  no  more,  then  they  sint 
her  back,  the  pore  craythur." 

"Oh,  but  what  a  pity,"  I  said;  "she  looks  a 
strong,  healthy  woman." 

"  She  do  be  all  of  that,"  the  old  driver  said, 
"  there's  many  a  young  wun  couldn't  do  the  like 
of  her  work.  But  it  wuzn't  her,  'twas  Bridgit,  her 
daughter,  that  sint  thim  back.  Noreen  Flanagan's 
son  John  wint  to  New  York,  him  that  lost  his 
wife.  He  was  restless  an'  couldn't  settle  to  his 
work  afther  she  wint,  an'  he  left  the  two  childer 
wid  Noreen  and  Bridgit,  an'  if  he  done  well  they 
wuz  all  to  follow  him.  He  done  better  than  he 
thought,  an'  he  sint  money  for  thim  to  come 
to  him,  an'  money  for  the  warm  things  they  would 
want  on  the  say.  The  baby  had  a  red  coat,  an' 
the  boy  ivery  thing  of  good  Irish  frieze,  includin' 
a  cap.  An'  Noreen  an'  Bridgit  had  grand  cloaks, 
an'  hats  wid  feathers  in  thim,  an'  they  crossed  to 
Liverpool  an'  sailed  from  there,  an'  John  met 
thim,  an'  Bridgit  niver  said  a  wurd.  The  examin- 
ers axed  if  she  was  dumb  or  wantin',  an'  John 
said  no,  she  chirped  like  a  bird  at  Achill;  but  divil 


302  HERSELF— IRELAND 

a  chirp  or  a  cheep  would  she  give  in  New  York. 
They  spoke  to  her  in  English,  an'  they  spoke  to 
her  in  Irish,  an'  they  spoke  to  her  in  American, 
but  nayther  a  wurd  would  she  say  in  anny  lan- 
guage. The  craythur  was  struck  dumb.  An'  the 
examiner  said  she  must  talk  if  she  was  goin'  to  be 
an  American,  but  niver  a  wurd  would  she  say,  so 
Noreen  brought  her  back  to  Achill." 

"  And  can  she  talk  now? " 

"  The  same  as  iver — just  the  same  as  iver,"  the 
man  said.  "  Maybe  'twas  the  noise.  Maybe  'twas 
the  strangeness.  But  annyhow,  in  America  she 
would  not  spake." 

We  were  nearing  the  end  of  our  drive.  To  the 
right  was  a  convent  where  the  Sisters  teach  the 
peasants  lace-making.  In  their  dark-blue  habits 
and  white-winged  bonnets,  clustered  on  the  steps 
and  in  the  garden,  they  were  like  a  flock  of  doves. 
I  looked  back  at  the  far-away  little  cottages,  all  of 
them  connected  by  those  chains  of  silver  that 
stretch  invisibly  across  the  Atlantic,  and  link 
America  and  Ireland  together.  And  the  golden 
chains  are  tender  memories  of  the  old  country, 
and,  above  all,  of  unforgetting  love. 

It  was  at  Mallaranny  that  Kitty  left  me  in 
answer  to  William's  letter,  for,  as  she  predicted, 
he  had  succeeded  in  getting  his  leave. 

"  Darling,"  he  wrote,  "  I  am  now  attached  to 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  303 

Brigade  and  Divisional  Headquarters  as  Billeting 
Officer  and  Interpreter  and  have  been  driving 
through  one  village  after  another  accompanied 
by  Mayors,  Gardes  Champetres,  or  Town  Mayors, 
searching  out  des  logments  pour  la  troupe.  Also 
at  each  place  I  used  to  have  to  arrange  a  bon 
petit  diner  for  Headquarters.  I  always  managed 
to  get  a  good  dinner  even  in  the  most  paralysing 
sort  of  places,  in  spite  of  a  shortage  in  the  ordi- 
nary necessaries  which  increased  in  acuteness  as 
we  reached  our  destination,  and  have  made  quite 
a  name  for  myself  in  that  direction.  A  sample  of 
such  a  meal  would  be  a  Soupe  aux  Legumes,  a 
Homard  (tinned),  Sauce  Mayonnaise,  a  gigot, 
bought  in  some  town  we  were  passing,  or  a  couple 
of  fowls  which  had  to  be  persuaded  out  of  the 
fermiere  by  the  most  urgent  arguments — the 
peasants  think  almost  as  much  of  egg-layers  now- 
adays as  the  man  in  Beranger's  verses  did  of  his 
deux  boeufs  blancs. 

"  A  Hun  plane  was  brought  down  just  in  front 
of  the  battery  this  morning  before  I  started  out, 
and  I  will  get  a  bit  of  it  as  a  souvenir  for  you. 
I  am  sorry  I  can't  get  you  the  clock  I  told  you 
of.  Price,  one  of  our  officers,  had  a  prior  claim 
on  it  as  I  found  out  when  I  tried  to  take  it 
stealthily  from  the  wall.  There  are  also  two  cats, 
one  of  which  Price  is  taking  home  when  he  gets  his 
leave  as  a  souvenir,  together  with  the  clock.  I 


304  HERSELF— IRELAND 

never  did  like  cats,  and  never  understood  them, 
but  these  two  I  simply  abominate.  They  are  of  a 
colossal  and  unnatural  size.  The  Padre  says  that 
it  is  because  they  have  been  feeding  on  the  battle- 
field. They  are  savagely  wild  and  distrustful — 
not  that  I  invite  their  confidences.  One  of  them 
has  been  gassed,  and  periodically  he  coughs  up 
foam.  He  has  also  had  part  of  his  tail  blown 
off.  Though  one  is  a  female  and  the  other  a  male 
they  are  bitter  enemies,  and  spit  and  snarl  in  com- 
pany. Needless  to  say,  they  have  lost  their  home ; 
it  may  have  once  existed  over  the  rubbish  heap 
which  crowns  the  dug-out. 

"  I  stumbled  across  an  Australian  infantryman 
yesterday.  He  was  washing  a  Hun  helmet — one 
of  those  Imperial  objects  with  gold  on  it.  They 
are  the  most  recherche  of  trophies  amongst  both 
the  Tommies  and  our  chaps,  and  I  never  could 
make  out  why.  This  chap  was  as  proud  as  Presi- 
dent Roosevelt  after  a  right  and  left  at  lions.  It 
appears  that  these  helmets  are  very  rare,  as  they 
are  worn  by  those  German  soldiers  who  are  so 
proud,  daring,  and  enamoured  of  tradition  that 
they  disdain  the  new-fangled  steel  helmets.  When 
one  such  is  sighted  there  is  a  blackguard  rush  by 
all  hands,  as  my  infantry  friend  said,  '  They  kill 
him  for  the  hat.' 

"  Hurrah!  Rah — Rah!  as  they  say  in  the  States, 
I've  got  my  leave,  it  begins  next  week,  and  you 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  305 

had  better  start  for  London  at  once.    We'll  go  to 
the  Savoy  and  pretend  it's  Paris. 

"  A  brief  good-bye, 

"Your  devoted  BILL." 

I  was  lonely  and  could  not  sleep  the  night  that 
Kitty  left  me,  but  the  dawn  was  glorious,  and  I 
got  up  early  and  went  down  to  the  sea.  The  grass 
was  covered  with  threads  of  gossamer,  so  fine 
they  were  suggested  rather  than  seen,  the  dew- 
drops  upon  them  separated  by  little  spaces,  glit- 
tered like  rainbow  rosaries,  and  whole  decades 
were  strung  from  bush  to  tree.  As  the  sun  rose 
I  left  the  sands,  walked  through  a  wood,  and 
reached  a  field  where  I  saw  a  living  illustration 
of  Lycett's  descriptive  poem: 

"  Gracefully,  steadily,  easily 
Three  men  are  mowing, 
Bending  and  rising,  they  capture  the 
Rhythm  of  rowing. 

"  Swish  goes  the  cut  of  the  scythes  as  they 

Glide  all  together 

Through  the  cool  stems  of  the  river  hay, 
In  the  hot  weather. 

"  Then  at  the  end  of  the  swath  comes  the 

Sound  of  honing, 
Grating  but  ringing  melodiously 
Like  a  bee  droning. 


306  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"  Morning  and  noon-tide  and  evening 

Comes  a  young  maiden, 
Porter  and  buttermilk  carrying 
Willingly  laden. 

"  And  while  they  drink  under  shadowy 

Willows  eternal, 

The  meadow  distils  for  them  heavenly 
Scent  of  sweet  vernal." 

My  mowers  glided  all  together  through  the  cool 
stems  of  the  river  hay,  and  there  was  the  scent 
of  sweet  vernal,  but  to  my  regret  no  maiden  came 
bringing  buttermilk — my  favourite  beverage.  I 
asked  for  it  on  my  return  to  the  hotel,  but  there 
never  seems  to  be  any  buttermilk  in  the  country, 
it  is  all  sent  to  town. 

When  Katherine  and  Alfred  who  were  to  be  my 
companions  on  a  further  tour  arrived,  being  cheer- 
ful people  my  depression  vanished.  They  have 
both  developed  great  alertness  of  mind  since  Al- 
fred meeting  Katherine  for  the  second  time,  on 
the  House  of  Commons'  Terrace,  asked  her  to 
marry  him. 

Not  allowing  for  love  at  first  sight,  and  her 
charm  and  handsome  appearance,  Katherine  said, 
"Marry  you!  Impossible!  You  know  nothing 
about  me,  and  I  know  nothing  about  you." 

"  That  is  why,"  Alfred  said,  "  I  have  asked  you 
to  marry  me.  I  thought  it  safer  while  you  did 
know  nothing  about  me." 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  307 

Then  began  spirited  arguments  which  did  not 
end  at  the  door  of  the  church  nor  afterwards. 
They  have  filled  each  other's  hearts,  but  at  the 
same  time  they  whet  each  other's  intellects.  And 
they  make  very  stimulating  and  agreeable  com- 
panions. Katherine  being  an  American  lady  of 
independent  thought  and  action,  and  Alfred  being 
English  and  conventional  to  the  finger-tips — al- 
though he  thinks  he's  a  Radical — there  will  always 
be  subjects  upon  which  they  can  differ.  Occa- 
sionally Katherine  feels  that  she  would  like  a 
calm  uncontradicted  existence,  and  takes  a  week's 
holiday,  but  on  the  third  day  Alfred  invariably 
follows  her,  that  her  mind  may  not  become  torpid. 

Our  first  stop  was  at  Sligo,  an  old  seaport  town, 
with  its  fine  ruin  of  an  Abbey  founded  in  1252  by 
a  Dominican  Order.  Katherine  is  by  instinct  an 
archaeologist,  and  Alfred  and  I,  at  her  command, 
went  over  every  inch  of  that  ruin;  through  clois- 
ters, arches,  nave,  and  choir,  but  being  two  to  one 
we  finally  got  her  to  walk  in  the  town,  which  is 
beautifully  situated  and  surrounded  by  mountains, 
woods,  and  water. 

The  next  day  we  spent  sailing  on  Lough  Gill, 
and  agreed  that  in  a  different  way,  a  more  gentle, 
soft,  and  friendly  way,  it  was  no  less  beautiful 
than  Killarney.  The  little  white  electric  launch 
glided  carefully  through  shallow  water,  passed 
pretty  old  houses,  long  settled  on  a  grassy  bank, 


308  HERSELF— IRELAND 

halted  entangled  for  a  moment  in  long-stemmed 
reeds,  and  looking  down  I  saw  hundreds  of  min- 
nows wildly  swimming  about,  agonised  with  fright 
by  the  sound  of  our  slowly  rotating  wheel.  Then 
wild  ducks  dived  away  from  us,  swam  under  water 
to  the  middle  of  the  blue  lake,  and  emerged  with 
peevish  protests,  shaking  a  thousand  sparkling 
drops  from  iridescent  wings. 

When  we  neared  the  middle  of  the  lake,  the  deep 
blue  of  the  water — the  reflection  of  a  cloudless 
mid  summer  sky — was  broken  by  long  sheets  of 
vivid  pink  and  yellow  water-lilies,  like  yards  of 
rose  and  daffodil  velvet  thrown  upon  a  monster 
mirror.  Little  brown  ducks,  when  we  came  too 
near,  splashed  away  from  us,  leaving  lines  of  white 
bubbles  in  their  wake;  and  something  from  the 
bank,  big  and  soft,  slipped  into  the  water  and 
dived  far  up  the  stream;  it  might  have  been  a 
furry  beaver — the  boatman  told  us  they  were 
seen  now  and  then.  The  foliage  was  lush  and 
green,  and  wild  single-leaved  roses,  generous 
daisies,  and  coral  fuchsias  grew  to  the  water's  edge. 

A  charming  little  house  with  "  To  Let "  was  on 
the  opposite  shore;  the  boatman  said  the  last  peo- 
ple who  lived  there  had  been  very  old;  now  they 
were  dead,  and  the  house  had  been  vacant  two 
years.  There  were  beds  of  flowers  about  it,  old 
apple  trees  near  the  windows,  and  a  little  stable 
in  the  rear.  Always  dreaming  of  a  home,  I  pro- 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  309 

posed  to  Alfred  and  Katherine  that  we  should 
drive  out  to  see  it.  They  agreed  the  place  looked 
delightful;  then  manlike,  Alfred  began  to  think  of 
the  future  dark  days,  dampness,  winter,  and 
loneliness.  "It  is  not  for  you,  you  must  be  near 
your  friends."  We  sailed  across  the  lake  near 
the  house;  it  might  have  been  a  white  cottage — 
except  for  the  loneliness — on  Lake  George.  And 
the  kittiwakes,  not  swimming,  but  letting  the  gen- 
tle little  waves  carry  them  along  not  too  near  the 
boat,  followed  in  our  wake.  The  lake  at  this  point 
began  to  broaden  and  widen  out,  and  here  and 
there  were  islands.  The  boatman  pointed  to  one, 
round  and  well  wooded,  where  he  said  a  young  girl 
lived  in  a  little  house,  "  with  a  dog,  two  cows,  and 
some  hins  to  kape  her  company,  but  except  for 
thim  she  do  be  all  alone.  And  in  the  winter 
whin  the  weather's  at  the  roughest,  maybe  she 
don't  see  annybody  for  weeks." 

"Hug  the  shore,"  said  Alfred;  "we  want  a 
glimpse  of  the  fair  hermit." 

As  we  approached,  a  dabchick  dived  from  the 
root  of  a  gnarled  oak,  and  left  a  yard  of  bubbles 
behind  him.  We  saw  in  a  small  cleared  space  a 
freshly  whitewashed  cottage,  and  heard  a  dog  bark, 
but  the  girl  was  probably  on  shore  working  for  a 
farmer.  There  was  a  sweet  little  bay  tucked  in 
a  curve  for  landing;  the  boatman  said  before  the 
war  he  had  conveyed  many  picnic  parties  there; 


310  HERSELF— IRELAND 

now  all  the  young  men  of  Sligo  had  gone  to  the 
war. 

How  sweet  and  restful,  pure  and  gentle,  the 
thoughts  must  be  of  a  woman  who  can  live  for 
weeks  and  months  entirely  alone.  What  a  calm, 
sensible,  satisfactory  companion  she  must  be  to 
herself.  I  know  of  an  Irish  girl  who  lived  by 
herself  on  a  little  island  in  the  St.  Lawrence  River. 
In  the  summer,  for  the  fishing,  she  let  lodgings 
to  a  weary,  sick-hearted,  disillusioned  man,  and 
she  gave  him  back  faith  in  the  sweetness  and  mod- 
esty of  womanhood,  and  he  fell  in  love  with  her 
and  married  her,  but  that  is  another  story. 

From  Sligo  to  Bundoran  we  motored  through 
lovely  country,  drank  long  draughts  of  the  pure 
mountain  air,  until  we  reached  the  sea  again,  and — 

"Bundoran !  and  your  summer  crowds  that  run 
From  inland  homes  to  see  with  joy  th*  Atlantic  setting  sun ; 
To  breathe  the  buoyant  salted  air,  and  sport  among  the 

waves ; 
To  gather  shells  on  sandy  beach,  and  tempt  the  gloomy 

caves ; 
To  watch  the  flowing,  ebbing  tide,  the  boats,  the  crabs, 

the  fish, 
Young  men  and  maids  to  meet  and  smile,  and  form  a 

tender  wish. 
And  if  the  Lord  allows  me,  I  surely  will  return." 

One  reason  I  should  like  to  return  is  that  I  saw 
a  remarkably  pretty,  old,  black  and  white  china 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  311 

tea-set  in  a  window,  which  I  have  been  wanting 
ever  since.  As  the  summer  crowds  that  run  from 
inland  homes  filled  the  hotel  to  overflowing,  and 
our  rooms  had  been  engaged  days  ahead,  we  only 
remained  one  night,  and  dashed  off  by  motor  to 
Gweedore,  stopping  on  our  way  at  Ballyshannon, 
where  there  is  a  castle,  a  famous  salmon  leap,  and 
it  is  the  birthplace  of  William  Allingham,  the 
essayist  and  poet  who,  like  so  many  brilliant  Irish- 
men, left  it  for  England,  and  then  wrote  of  its 
joys: 

"  I  leave  my  warm  heart  with  you,  tho'  my  back  I'm  forced 

to  turn — 

So  adieu  to  Ballyshanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of  Erne ! 
No  more  on  pleasant  evenings  we'll  saunter  down  the 

Mall, 

When  the  trout  is  rising  to  the  fly,  the  salmon  to  the  fall. 
The  boat  comes  straining  on  her  net,  and  heavily  she 

creeps, 
Cast  off,  cast  off — she  feels  the  oars,  and  to  her  berth 

she  sweeps; 
Now  fore  and  aft  keep  hauling,  and  gathering  up  the 

clew. 
Till  a  silver  wave  of  salmon  rolls  in  among  the  crew." 

The  fishing  in  Gweedore  is  quite  as  good  as  that 
of  Ballyshannon,  the  hotel  is  comfortable,  and  the 
people  who  keep  it  most  obliging,  as  I  know  from 
a  little  instantaneous  laundry  work  they  did  for 
me.  My  bag  had  not  arrived,  and  by  going  to 


312  HERSELF— IRELAND 

bed  at  nine  o'clock — the  only  time  in  many  years — 
my  underlinen  and  blouse  were  washed,  ironed, 
and  brought  to  my  room  the  next  morning  at  eight 
o'clock.  I  venture  to  say  that,  with  all  the  com- 
plaints of  Irish  hotels,  this  willingness  to  oblige 
would  not  have  happened  in  any  other  country. 
There  were  fishermen  who  brought  back  trout  and 
salmon  for  breakfast  and  dinner,  but  the  war  has 
affected  that  sport;  as  we  were  none  of  us  enthusi- 
astic fishermen  we  made  a  short  stay,  and  again 
travelled  by  motor  to  Leitrim  through  the  Donegal 
Highlands,  which  were  indescribably  beautiful. 
They  are  without  trees,  but,  like  all  of  Ireland, 
carpeted  in  green. 

The  wide  undulations  of  the  lofty  rolling  val- 
leys and  hills  made  rich  purple  shadows,  and  the 
little  white  houses  clung  like  swallows'  nests  to 
the  sides  of  the  steep  hills,  or  burrowed  behind  a 
rising  of  the  land.  The  mountains  around  us  were 
over  a  thousand  feet  high,  many  of  them  green 
with  indigenous  forests,  and  finally  we  skirted  the 
border  of  a  still,  blue,  lonely  water,  Glen  Veigh — 
the  Glen  of  the  Silver  Birches. 

This  region  has  a  tragic  history  connected  in  a 
manner  with  my  own  state,  Texas,  for  the  Adairs 
own  cattle  ranches  there,  and  the  wholesale  evic- 
tions from  his  estate  by  Mr.  John  George  Adair 
even  stirred  the  people  of  my  far-away  land  to 
sympathy.  From  the  beginning  of  his  purchase  of 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  313 

the  estate  he  had  been  unpopular  and  wanting  in 
understanding  of  the  peasants.  Emerson  says  in 
every  condition  of  life  there  is  compensation,  so  the 
mountaineer  has  a  greater  love  for  the  hard,  un- 
yielding land  than  the  man  who  lives  in  a  smiling 
valley.  The  poor  people  when  evicted  were  help- 
less for  utter  despair.  A  number  of  emigrants 
from  this  part  of  Donegal,  having  gone  to  Aus- 
tralia, when  they  heard  of  the  bitter  plight  of  their 
countrymen  sent  means  for  their  transportation  to 
Australia,  and  a  few  of  them  emigrated  to 
Texas. 

Peter  Smith,  our  head  gardener,  was  a  Donegal 
man.  He  saved  his  wages,  set  up  a  greengrocer's 
shop  in  Austin,  and  soon  became  very  well  off. 
His  sister,  Mary  Smith,  a  sweet  and  gentle 
woman,  was  my  nurse.  She  married  Miles  Burns, 
a  carpenter — how  I  did  resent  his  taking  her 
away  from  me — but  her  heavenly  twins  compen- 
sated me  for  her  loss.  They  were  flesh-and-blood 
doll  babies,  who  could  laugh  and  cry  when  they 
were  bathed,  and  stretch  out  their  hands  and  smile 
when  they  saw  me.  Miles  was  a  sober  and  indus- 
trious man,  and  they  lived  in  a  little  white  cottage 
on  the  top  of  a  hill,  just  a  stone's  throw  from 
our  house.  In  the  gloaming  I  used  to  watch  a 
light  twinkling  in  their  window,  and  a  daily  plead- 
ing question  was,  "  Mama,  can  I  go  and  see 
Mary? "  There  has  never  been  in  the  whole  of 


314  HERSELF— IRELAND 

my  life  a  dearer  delight  than  those  visits,  for 
Mary,  who  had  always  spoiled  me,  allowed  me  free 
scope  with  the  twins.  I  was  permitted  to  nurse 
them,  and  feed  them  and  undress  them,  and  set 
them  side  by  side  in  a  little  bath-tub.  At  the  early 
age  of  six  I  couldn't  have  been  an  altogether  safe 
nurse,  and  one  day  I  had  the  misfortune  to  trip 
and  fall  with  Tommy  in  my  arms.  My  mother, 
who  was  coming  in  through  the  gate,  said,  "  Mary, 
I  know  you  are  going  to  make  this  child  of  mine  a 
murderer;  one  day  she  will  kill  both  of  the 
twins." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Mary,  "  they  are  strong,  and 
this  is  Betty's  first  accident.  She  washes  them  a 
good  deal,  but  I  haven't  the  heart  to  stop  her, 
she  seems  to  enjoy  herself  so  much." 

Miles  from  a  carpenter  became  a  builder,  and  a 
rich  man,  and  was  able  to  give  his  children  every 
educational  advantage.  So  this  beautiful,  wild 
mountain  district  brought  back  many  tender,  long- 
forgotten  memories  to  me. 

"  There's  an  old  ruined  castle  down  that  road," 
said  the  chauffeur. 

"A  ruin!"  said  Katherine  exultantly;  "then 
we  must  see  it."  How  happy  it  would  make  her 
to  expend  her  superabundant  energy  and  ex- 
traordinary powers  of  organisation  in  restoring 
one. 

"  Is  the  road  safe  for  a  motor?  "  asked  Alfred. 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  315 

"  The  road  is  good  enough,"  I  said,  "  and  the 
ruin  must  be  an  important  one." 

So  we  backed  and  turned  and  travelled  along 
by  the  lake.  A  flag  was  flying  on  the  Castle, 
and  Katherine  enquired  of  the  chauffeur  the  name 
of  the  ruin. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  "  it  belonged  to  wun 
of  thim  ould  ancient  Kings,  or  maybe  'twas  Saint 
Columkill  himself;  'twas  him  that  loved  the  water." 

By  this  time  we  were  fast  nearing  the  fortress, 
and  said  I,  "  Well,  Saint  or  King,  he  had  lovely 
taste  in  curtains,  and  apparently  they  were  made 
of  everlasting  brocade." 

And  then  we  drew  up  before  the  portals  of  Glen 
Veigh,  the  fine  modern  castle  built  by  Mr.  Adair. 
It  stands  on  a  little  promontory,  jutting  out  into 
the  lake,  under  the  shadow  of  a  mountain  which  is 
thickly  wooded  to  the  top.  And  it  has  the  sur- 
prise and  charm  of  an  oasis  in  the  desert.  About 
it  nature  looms  in  solitary  grandeur.  Lake,  forest, 
and  hill  are  primeval,  but  they  surround  splendid 
blossoming  flower-beds,  a  rich  rose  garden,  and 
large  houses  of  glass,  which  give  shelter  to  tropical 
plants,  fruit  trees,  and  vines  heavy  with  grapes. 

"  I  am  disappointed,"  said  Katherine,  "  I  ex- 
pected a  ruin." 

"  I  am  hungry,"  said  Alfred;  "  very  hungry." 

And  we  made  a  great  spurt  to  the  Leitrim 
Hotel,  an  ideal  summer  inn,  built  of  Norwegian 


316  HERSELF— IRELAND 

pine,  with  numerous  bathrooms,  and  many  large, 
airy  bedrooms  furnished  in  excellent  taste,  and 
Alfred,  who  loves  the  sea,  found  the  bathing  in 
the  Atlantic  "  glorious." 

Our  next  little  journey  from  Rosapenna  to  Port 
Salon,  by  open  car  and  ferries,  was  pleasantly 
primitive;  we  failed  to  make  connections,  and 
occasionally  sat  for  a  time  on  the  roadside,  but  our 
cheerfulness  was  unimpaired  by  the  dampness  of  a 
grey  day.  The  gay  hotel  and  surroundings  give  it 
something  of  a  foreign  atmosphere.  It  might  be 
a  Swiss  hotel,  the  colours  are  so  definite,  with  blue 
sea,  green  hills,  and  salmon-coloured  sands.  The 
golf-links  are  divided  by  a  little  river  which 
empties  into  the  bay.  Everything  looked  clean 
and  fresh,  and  the  air  was  agreeably  exhila- 
rating. 

And  then  a  pleasant  motor  drive  to  Cushendall, 
the  little,  quaint,  straggling  village  which  aroused 
Thackeray's  admiration  to  extol  its  loveliness. 
We  walked  by  the  curfew  tower,  which  still  rings 
the  curfew  hour,  and  through  a  beautiful  avenue  of 
trees,  to  high  cliffs  that  overlook  the  sea.  Destroy- 
ers are  anchored  there,  and  sunburnt  sailors  come 
ashore  to  cheer  the  wounded  Tommies  who  are  sent 
for  convalescence  to  the  cheerful  hospital  sur- 
rounded by  a  shady  garden.  The  drive  by  Cushen- 
dall to  Letterkenny  around  the  coast,  beneath 
splendid  cliffs  and  close  to  the  sea  is  something 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  317 

to  be  remembered.  A  number  of  carriages  were 
waiting  about  the  station,  and  Katherine  wanted 
to  operate  at  once  upon  a  wart,  the  size  of  an  egg, 
which  stood  out  from  a  white-eyed  roan  horse's 
nose.  But  on  closer  examination  it  proved  to 
be  part  of  his  lip  tied  tightly  with  pink  cord  to 
discourage  him  from  nipping  the  passer-by. 

Our  time  was  so  limited  in  Letterkenny  it  did 
not  allow  us  to  drive  to  Lacknacar  to  see  the  flag- 
stone upon  which  St.  Columba  was  born.  The 
peasants  say  whoever  sleeps  upon  it  will  never 
suffer  from  homesickness,  and  many  poor  emi- 
grants have  spent  their  last  night  upon  that  hard 
bed  before  leaving  Erin,  to  render  their  hearts 
stout  and  unregretful  in  a  strange  land. 

No  scout  on  a  prairie  looking  for  Indians  has  a 
better  eye  for  fruit  than  Katherine,  she  even  found 
strawberries  and  cherries  in  Letterkenny,  and 
added  the  basket  to  our  luggage  for  Derry.  It 
must  always  be  Derry  for  the  Irish  or  those  who 
love  Ireland — never  Londonderry — London  being 
superimposed  only  after  English  intrigue  had  pau- 
perised and  ruined  the  little  town.  There  was 
an  odour  in  the  hall  of  the  hotel  altogether  too 
pungent,  and  even  more  evident  in  my  room,  where 
it  proved  to  be  an  over-ripe  box  of  melons  and 
peaches,  a  tribute  of  affection  from  Kitty,  which 
had  been  waiting  our  arrival  too  long. 

After  leaving  my  bag — but  alas!  not  my  um- 


318  HERSELF— IRELAND 

brella — that  had  been  taken  from  me  at  Rosa- 
penna,  a  young,  strong,  sleek  umbrella,  in  the  very 
beginning  of  its  career — it  had  scarcely  been  with 
me  a  month — while  the  one  left  in  its  place,  old, 
weak  and  worn  had  been  with  its  owner  many 
years — I  called  Katherine,  and  we  sallied  forth 
to  see  the  ancient  walled  town.  It  has  a  very  beau- 
tiful situation,  built  on  ground  that  slopes  to  a  hill 
and  overlooks  the  broad  river  Foyle.  The  walls 
still  stand,  and  there  are  evidences  of  the  siege, 
Ferry  quay  Gate,  and  "  Roaring  Meg,"  in  an  angle 
of  the  wall,  and  the  post  office  is  built  over  the 
place  where  Murray  and  Maumont  had  a  hand-to- 
hand  encounter,  and  the  Frenchman  was  slain. 
But  there  is  no  monastery  or  ruin  of  one,  in  mem- 
ory of  Derry's  greatest  man,  St.  Columba,  who 
was  not  only  a  great  saint  and  scholar,  but  a  man 
of  great  family,  the  well-beloved  cousin  of  Prince 
Ainmore,  through  whose  generosity  he  was  able  to 
found  Durrow  and  Kells,  those  wonderful  seats 
of  learning  and  of  artistic  craft.  Probably  he  has 
often  turned  the  pages  of  the  Book  of  Durrow, 
when  he  sat  under  the  spreading  branches  of  his 
oak  trees,  which  he  loved  too  well  to  cut  down, 
even  for  the  building  of  his  monastery.  It  had  to 
be  fitted  in  among  them. 

I  have  been  taught  to  love  trees.  When  my 
father  built  our  house  in  Texas  a  noble  elm  inter- 
fered with  the  balconies  at  the  back  of  the  house, 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  319 

and  rather  than  cut  it  down,  both  the  upper  and 
lower  balcony  were  built  around  it. 

St.  Columba  was  priest,  poet,  and  warrior,  pay- 
ing dearly  for  his  valour,  as  after  he  had  lost  a 
battle  against  the  King  at  Tara — probably  if  he 
had  gained  a  victory  it  might  have  been  different— 
St.  Malaise  sent  him  out  of  the  country  to  preach 
a  repentant  Gospel  in  Scotland. 

We  looked  in  the  shops  to  find  a  picture  or 
statue  of  St.  Columba,  but  there  were  none. 
Katherine  bought  a  dozen — so-called — Waterford 
tumblers;  they  might  have  been  made  in  Belfast, 
but  they  were  undoubtedly  old,  of  generous  pro- 
portions, a  good  colour,  and  well  cut.  Alfred 
when  he  saw  a  basket  of  precious  glass  which  had 
to  be  carefully  handled,  was,  to  put  it  mildly, 
restive.  He  made  a  few  pertinent  remarks  about 
the  ways  of  American  women,  but  what  was  more 
to  the  point,  he  carried  the  basket.  It  is  not 
difficult  for  an  Englishman  to  be  persuaded  by 
his  American  wife  to  American  ways,  but  Kath- 
erine has  actually  persuaded  Alfred  to  look  like  an 
American.  Any  stranger  would  take  him  to  be  a 
good-looking,  well-set-up  New  Yorker. 

There  are  good  shops  in  Derry,  and  it  is  clean 
and  prosperous  looking,  a  much  pleasanter  town 
than  Belfast,  but  there  are  no  manufactures,  ex- 
cept the  making  of  shirts,  which  only  employs  a 
limited  number  of  women.  The  chief  interest  of 


320  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Derry  lies  in  the  decades  of  the  picturesque  past 
rather  than  in  her  present,  and  perhaps  in  her 
future,  if  Ireland  awakes  to  the  prosperity  which  is 
her  due. 

The  world  points  to  Belfast  as  an  example  of 
what  shipbuilding  and  trade  can  accomplish  in  Ire- 
land, but  to  me  Belfast  was  a  great  disappoint- 
ment. It  has  a  large  and  ornate  city  hall,  a  very 
fine  technical  college,  and  unequalled — so  they  told 
me — linen  manufactories.  Almost  the  first  thing 
I  noticed  was  "  Lyons,"  being  woven  on  a  satin- 
smooth  tablecloth — but  the  wages,  the  hours,  and 
the  housing  of  the  workers  excited  my  profound 
sympathy.  The  lads  were  pale,  with  thin,  round 
shoulders,  and  the  girls  looked  tired,  underfed,  and 
dispirited. 

The  highest  wages  earned  by  a  woman  are 
twenty-five  shillings  a  week,  but  few  ever  attain 
this  princely  sum.  The  little  girls  of  thirteen  and 
fourteen  earn  perhaps  half  a  crown  a  week,  and 
running  between  school  in  the  morning  and  to  a 
factory  in  the  afternoon  makes  them  an  easy  prey 
during  the  winter  to  pneumonia  and  bronchitis. 
All  day  the  girls  are  standing  bare-footed  in  the 
over-heated  factories  on  wet  tiles,  and  they  catch 
cold  going  home.  And  they  are  even  worse  off  in 
the  dry-spinning  rooms,  where  they  breathe  a  fluff 
called  pouce.  The  throat  and  lungs  are  often 
affected  by  it,  and  many  of  the  women  die  of  con- 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  321 

sumption.  The  average  woman  worker  dies  under 
forty.  Many  of  the  houses  where  these  poor  peo- 
ple live  are  condemned,  but  the  Corporation  re- 
mains indifferent  to  their  demolishment.  The 
mortality  of  babies  is  very  high,  and  the  little  chil- 
dren are  ragged,  dirty,  and  ill  cared  for,  as  must 
be  the  case  with  their  mothers  all  day  in  the 
factories. 

The  prosperity  of  a  community  built  up  through 
starvation  wages,  misery,  disease,  and  death  is  not 
prosperity  to  me.  And  the  outworker  is  scarcely 
an  improvement  upon  the  factory  girl.  I  always 
loved  dots  until  I  went  to  Belfast,  then  I  saw 
many  dozens  of  pocket-handkerchiefs  embroidered 
in  dots  above  the  hem,  and  for  three  days'  work  an 
experienced  embroideress  received  two  shillings. 
Even  the  most  persevering  worker,  not  shirking 
early  or  late  hours,  cannot  make  more  than  nine 
shillings  a  week.  These  are  fine,  free  Protestants, 
not  under  the  domination  of  the  priests,  but  con- 
trast them  with  Catholic  girls  employed  by  the 
Sisters,  who  receive  a  living  wage,  have  healthy, 
bright  rooms  to  work  in,  and  hours  possible  to  the 
maintenance  of  health.  No,  to  me  Belfast  is  a 
living  argument  against  wealth  made  through  the 
bitter  necessity  of  a  people  unable  to  cope  with  the 
Capitalist.  It  smacks  of  smugness  and  self-satis- 
faction, and  a  want  of  Christian  charity.  Some- 
thing of  the  hard,  unrelenting  character  of  Chi- 


322  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Chester,  who  wrote  in  1609  of  the  native  Irish,  "  I 
spare  neither  house,  corn,  nor  creature,  none  of 
any  quality,  age,  or  sex  whatsoever,  beside  many 
being  burned  to  death,  we  kill  men,  women,  horse, 
beast,  or  whatsoever  we  find,"  still  obtains. 

Curiously  enough  Belfast,  whose  sympathy  was 
active  for  Republican  America  and  Republican 
France,  is  devoid  of  sympathy  for  Republican 
Ireland.  Katherine's  grandfather  was  a  North  of 
Ireland  gentleman  who  went  to  America  for 
greater  freedom.  And  in  spite  of  the  prosperity  of 
the  North  and  of  Belfast,  emigration  continues  to 
America.  All  the  people  to  whom  I  talked,  man- 
agers, foremen  in  the  factories,  and  factory  hands 
had  relations  in  the  United  States.  I  did  not  see 
the  great  factory  for  mineral  waters,  or  tobacco, 
where  things  may  be  better  managed  than  in  the 
linen  factories,  and  women  for  some  reason  or 
other  are  no  longer  allowed  to  enter  the  shipping 
yards,  but  it  was  as  well;  we  were  not  sorry  to 
leave  Belfast. 

I  carried  the  pleasantest  memory  of  it  away  with 
a  giant  bouquet  of  roses,  tied  by  green  ribbons  dan- 
gling a  little  black  pig  for  good  luck.  It  was  given 
me  by  a  charming,  warm-hearted  Irish  girl,  who 
had  heard  a  glorified  account  of  my  character  from 
a  nurse  in  London,  who  applied  radium  to  my  face 
in  the  Radium  Institute  where  I  was  treated  for  a 
burn.  And  the  accident  happened  me  in  Buffalo, 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  323 

New  York — consequences — consequences — all  the 
way    across    the    sea    to    flowers  and    a    bog-oak 

Pig- 
How  intoxicating  the  fresh  air  of  Portrush  and 
the  Giant's  Causeway  is  after  Belfast,  but  even 
among  the  wonders  of  the  world  Alfred  was  at- 
tacked with  a  sudden  desire  for  home.  He  and 
Katherine  turned  their  steps  Londonward,  and  I 
crossed  country  to  Claremorris  and  Katherine  Ty- 
nan, stopping  for  a  night  and  a  day  to  see  Ennis- 
killen,  a  very  pretty,  picturesque,  hilly  town  on 
the  lovely  green  banks  of  Lough  Neagh.  My 
room  in  a  clean  country  hotel  looked  on  the  waters 
of  the  lake. 

The  night  was  bright  with  moonlight,  but  the 
next  morning  I  awoke  to  find  it  raining — Irish 
fashion — clear,  clean  drops  from  a  silvery  sky,  and 
I  ventured  forth  to  the  fair,  which  had  that  morn- 
ing been  opened.  There  were  good  horses,  a  red 
roan  with  brown  eyes  was  an  enviable  animal,  fine 
cows,  fat  sheep,  a  collection  of  adorable  collie  pup- 
pies, and  in  the  exhibition  rooms,  some  beautiful 
embroidery,  one  collar  was  equal  to  the  best 
French  needlework,  and  an  interesting  show  of 
flowers.  I  lingered  near  a  pot  of  Helenium  Cu- 
preum — nigger  heads  it  is  called  in  Texas,  where 
acres  of  it  grow — and  memory  obliterated  the 
scene  around  me.  I  was  a  little  girl  again  riding  a 
stout  mustang  pony  over  a  wide  Texas  prairie,  the 


324  HERSELF— IRELAND 

warm  summer  wind  bending  the  grass  like  waves 
of  the  sea,  and  my  father  off  his  horse  gathering 
armfuls  of  "  nigger  heads  "  and  blue  bonnets,  bind- 
ing them  together  with  ribbons  of  grass  and  sling- 
ing them  at  the  back  of  my  saddle — so  long  ago — 

so  far  away,  and  here  to-day  in  Ireland The 

silvery  sky  had  darkened  to  grey  and  it  poured  in 
torrents;  there  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  get 
back  to  the  hotel  and  read  Douglas  Hyde's  Love 
Songs  of  Connacht,  a  light,  convenient,  paper- 
bound  book  to  carry  in  one's  bag.  Moorneen  of 
the  Fair  Hair  lived  in  Enniskillen. 

"  My  grief  that  I  and  thou 

Oh  young  maiden  without  melancholy 
Are  not  in  the  dark  island  of  Lough  Erne, 

Or  beneath  the  dark  woods  of  the  rods, 

Where  the  birds  make  their  nests 
And  (there  is)  growth  to  the  top  of  the  boughs. 

Or  in  a  little  valley  beside  a  bay 

Where  the  cuckoo  speaks, 
And  the  sea  from  the  north  to  be  beside  us 

Myself  and  my  secret 

Without  sleep  or  slumber, 
But  playing  in  a  corner  together. 

"  My  grief  that  I  am  not  in  the  churchyard 

Along  with  my  kindred  friends, 
Or  on  the  top  of  a  hill  making  a  dwelling, 
Before  you  chanced  into  my  net 
Doubling  the  wounds  in  my  heart, 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  325 

And  you  turned  my  locks  like  a  sloe-berry. 

Short  affection  from  a  woman, 

It  only  lasts  a  month; 
But  it  is  like  a  whiff  of  the  March  wind. 

Oh  treasure,  it  were  not  right  to  sell  me 

On  account  of  a  little  riches 
And  in  the  future  let  your  mind  be  satisfied  with  me." 

What    a    distinguished    song    of   love,    and    how 
redolent  of  the  Irish  woods,  and  sky,  and  sea. 

"  O !  dear  little  mother,  give  him  myself ; 
Give  him  the  cows  and  the  sheep  altogether. 
Go  yourself  a-begging  for  alms, 
And  go  not  west  or  east  to  look  for  me." 

Isn't  this  charming  verse  the  quintessence  of 
love's  selfishness?  To  make  me  happy,  give  all 
you  have  to  my  darling  even  if  it  leaves  you  a 
beggar.  Barry  Pain  makes  his  charwoman  ex- 
plain the  same  sentiment  in  a  different  manner. 

"  If,"  says  Mrs.  Murphy,  "  a  girl's  really  in 
love,  and  you  say  to  her,  *  Your  young  man 
poisoned  his  mother,'  she  says,  'Well,  I've  no 
doubt  there  were  faults  on  both  sides.'  " 

It  rained  all  night,  and  the  next  morning  I 
started  early  on  my  long  journey  to  Claremorris, 
to  make  and  to  enjoy  a  visit  to  Katherine  Tynan 
Hinkson,  a  delightful  woman,  happy  in  her  reli- 
gion, her  husband,  her  children,  and  her  work. 
When  the  Hinksons  lived  in  London,  she  and 


326  HERSELF— IRELAND 

her  husband  in  the  early  days  of  spring  were 
taking  a  walk  in  Hyde  Park,  being  the  best  of 
friends  it  gives  them  pleasure  to  do  many  things 
together.  The  air  was  mild,  the  sun  shone,  and  the 
Park  was  full  of  people,  but  they  succeeded  in 
finding  a  seat  unoccupied  except  for  a  very  shabby, 
grease-bespattered  coat  forgotten  by  its  owner. 
Katherine  Tynan  pushed  it  aside,  but  her  husband 
said,  "  I  must  try  and  find  the  owner  of  that  coat." 

"  Don't  do  anything  of  the  kind,"  said  K.  T., 
"  sit  yourself  down  and  enjoy  this  enchanting 
weather." 

"K.  T.,"  her  husband  said,  "I  don't  know 
whether  it's  that  you  are  an  Irish  Catholic,  or 
whether  it  is  natural  to  you,  but  you  have  a  lax 
conscience.  Isn't  it  my  duty  to  try  and  find  the 
owner  of  this  top-coat?  " 

"  No,"  said  K.  T.,  "  I  don't  think  it  is,  it  doesn't 
look  at  all  as  if  it  belonged  to  a  nice  man;  your 
duty  is  to  let  it  alone,  and  amuse  me." 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  is  the  Irish  Catholic  again, 
pleasure  before  business  always,"  and  with  that  he 
put  the  coat  over  his  arm  and  started  down  the 
path,  meeting  at  a  few  paces  a  red-nosed,  unpre- 
possessing individual,  who  said  to  him  sharply, 
"  Here,  where  are  you  going  with  that  there 
coat?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  Hinkson,  as  befitted  a  courteous 
Irish  Protestant,  "  I  was  just  in  the  act  of  try- 


A  PLEASANT  TOUR  327 

ing  to  find  the  owner,  allow  me  to  restore  it  to 
you." 

"  That's  a  pretty  tale,  that  is,"  said  the  man,  "  if 
you  didn't  intend  pinchin'  that  coat  why  didn't 
you  leave  it  be  on  the  seat?  You  was  tryin'  to 
make  away  with  my  coat,  that's  what  you  was,  an' 
only  for  me  hurry  in'  to  catch  a  train,  I'd  report 
you  an'  your  fine  manners  to  the  p'leece,  that's 
what  I  would." 

And  then  the  Irish  Catholic  laughed  long  and 
heartily,  and  the  Irish  Protestant  sat  down  and 
was  silent. 

I  smiled  as  I  remembered  how  well  "  K.  T."  had 
told  this  story.  What  a  true  poet  she  is,  and  how 
many  wise  and  tender  things  she  has  said,  and 
none  of  them  wiser  than:  "With  congenial  work 
one  is  always  happy.  When  Pandora  let  all  the 
evils  fly  into  the  world  out  of  that  unlucky  box, 
it  was  not  hope  that  stayed  at  the  bottom  but 
work."  And  when  a  moment  comes  of  devastating 
despair  there  is  nothing  so  helpful  as  bodily  effort. 
I  can  understand  the  poor  mother  who  said,  when 
news  was  brought  of  her  only  son  being  killed  in 
battle,  "  Take  me  into  my  garden  and  let  me  dig. 
Oh,  my  God,  let  me  dig."  A  spring  cleaning,  tak- 
ing up  carpets,  putting  them  down,  washing  china, 
and  polishing  furniture  can  be  a  solace  to  the 
heaviest  heart,  I  know — for  I  have  tried  it. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

GALWAY,  AN  OLD  CITY  OF  THE  WEST 

ROGER  CASEMENT  said  of  Galway,  "  Its  ruin  and 
decay  appal  me,  and  its  trans-Atlantic  mind,"  but 
in  spite  of  the  look,  that  it  has  been  bombed,  there 
are  so  many  houses  with  tumbling  walls  and  gap- 
ing windows,  guiltless  of  glass  or  sash — my  memo- 
ries of  the  days  spent  in  Galway  are  cheerful. 

For  one  thing,  the  sun  shone  with  long,  level 
brilliant  rays,  as  if  they  came  all  the  way  from 
America,  and,  indeed,  there  is  no  place  in  Ireland 
so  connected  with  my  own  land  by  thousands  of 
invisible  chains  as  Galway.  For  centuries  emi- 
grants from  the  west  of  Ireland  have  steadily 
poured  into  the  port  of  New  York,  and  every 
young  man  and  young  woman  with  whom  I  talked 
told  me  they  were  only  waiting  for  the  end  of  the 
war  to  sail  for  America.  Some  of  the  youths  had 
been  already  turned  back  from  Liverpool,  and  I 
remembered  that  since  1851,  when  statistics  were 
last  collected,  to  September,  1916,  4,314,781  per- 
sons had  left  Ireland — over  two  million  of  them 
were  men;  and  deplorable  as  it  is  to  be  compelled 
to  leave  their  country,  in  our  friendly  and  gener- 
ous land,  many  sad  and  embittered  hearts  have 


GALWAY  329 

found  compensation  in  hope,  contentment,  and 
prosperity.  To  some  we  have  given  even  more. 

There  are  few  Irishmen  at  home  or  abroad  who 
do  not  know  of  the  existence  and  influence  of  that 
chivalrous  paper  The  Boston  Pilot.  It  has,  for  the 
honour  of  humanity,  espoused  many  a  weak  but 
deserving  cause,  and  it  rose  to  importance  and 
influence  under  the  editorship  of  John  Boyle 
O'Reilly,  a  Fenian  who  had  been  sent  to  penal 
servitude  in  Australia,  but  escaped  with  the  help 
of  the  jailor's  daughter,  took  an  open  boat  to  sea, 
was  picked  up  by  a  whaling  ship  from  Massa- 
chusetts, and  landed  at  Boston.  After  a  life  of 
splendid  endeavour,  when  he  died  the  brief  epitaph, 
"  Ireland  gave  him  birth,  England  gave  him  exile, 
America  gave  him  fame,"  was  as  great  a  tribute  to 
the  land  of  his  adoption  as  to  his  genius.  Much 
as  he  loved  Ireland,  and  greatly  as  he  had  suffered 
for  her,  he  must  have  loved  his  healing  foster- 
mother  more.  Men  desire  above  all  things  fame; 
and  his  wreath  of  laurel  had  been  woven  and  given 
him  by  America.  \ 

Many  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence, that  great  triumphant  paper  of  Liberty, 
were  Irishmen.  Charles  Thompson,  the  reader  of 
those  immortal  words  that  thrilled  the  world  on  the 
4th  of  July,  1776,  was  born  in  Ireland,  so  was 
Matthew  Thornton,  James  Smith,  George  Taylor, 
and  George  Read ;  while  Thomas  McKean,  Charles 


330  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Carroll,  Edward  Rutledge,  and  Thomas  Lynch 
were  of  Irish  extraction;  therefore  it  is  natural 
that  our  country  is  regarded  by  Irishmen  as  a  land 
of  promise,  flowing  with  milk  and  honey.  But 
their  prowess  and  success  in  other  lands  drain  the 
very  life  blood  from  Ireland.  And  never  can  she 
have  real  prosperity  until  two  things  happen — an 
Irish  Government  formed  of  Irish  people  to  gov- 
ern Irish  people,  and  a  law,  even  if  it  should 
create  a  revolution,  to  close  all  public-houses. 

How  can  any  country  hope  to  succeed  with,  as 
an  eminent  divine  told  me,  eighty-six  public-houses 
in  a  village  of  one  thousand  five  hundred  inhabi- 
tants. And  never  have  I  seen  human  beings  more 
sodden  with  drink  than  in  Galway.  Faces  a  deep 
purple  red,  bloated  and  dropsical,  and  hands  that 
trembled  as  if  they  suffered  from  shell-shock. 
These  were  middle-aged  and  old  men  and  women, 
for  drink  is  not  so  easily  discerned  in  the  young. 
And  this  picturesque  and  interesting  old  town 
swarms  with  public-houses. 

There  was  a  popular  bar  in  my  hotel,  con- 
veniently situated  for  its  numerous  patrons.  While 
I  waited  for  a  jaunting-car  a  woman  came  in  to 
beg.  Tall  and  straight  as  a  young  sapling,  her 
hair  was  a  dusty  black,  and  her  skin  was  dried 
and  tanned  by  sun  and  wind,  but  the  bone  struc- 
ture of  her  face  was  beautiful.  The  forehead  low 
and  broad,  the  delicate  nose  straight,  and  the  chin 


GALWAY  331 

slightly  tilted  was  round  arid  pure  in  outline. 
Her  eyes  were  sullen  and  mysterious,  and  they 
were  swollen  underneath  by  drink.  She  had  a 
child  by  the  hand,  a  veritable  Cinderella,  who  if 
dressed  in  muslin  and  lace  might  have  been  mis- 
taken for  a  fairy  princess,  so  perfect  was  her  little 
figure  and  her  little  dark  face.  Like  her  mother, 
she  held  her  body  erect,  and  her  ragged  dress 
reaching  barely  to  her  knees,  showed  straight, 
brown  legs,  slim  ankles,  and  narrow  feet  with  in- 
dications of  well-arched  insteps.  The  sleeves  of 
her  frock  were  torn  away  above  the  elbows,  and 
her  round  forearms,  thin  hands,  and  taper  fingers 
were  charmingly  perfect.  Her  wavy  hair  was 
black  and  her  serious,  unchildlike  eyes  a  clear  grey, 
darkened  by  black  lashes.  I  gave  the  mother  a 
trifle,  and  this  encouraged  her  to  importune  other 
visitors.  When  the  manager  came  to  tell  me  my 
car  was  on  the  way,  he  bade  her  go;  but  she 
lingered  until  he  spoke  to  her  with  some  severity, 
the  child  looking  up  at  him  all  the  time  with  her 
wondering,  patient,  accusing  eyes. 

When  the  woman  finally  departed  I  said  to  him, 
"  Do  you  think  that  beggar  would  give  me  her 
lovely  little  girl? " 

"  Glory  be  to  God,  no!  "  said  he.  "  If  so  be  you 
but  mintioned  such  a  thing  to  her  she  would  call 
down  curses  on  your  head,  and  on  the  hotel,  and 
we  might  have  to  get  in  the  p'leece." 


332  HERSELF— IRELAND 

My  jarvey  was  young  and  talkative;  he  told  me 
he  had  got  as  far  as  Liverpool,  had  been  turned 
back,  and  was  only  waiting  for  the  war  to  end  be- 
fore he  sailed  to  join  two  brothers  and  three  sis- 
ters, who  had  all  preceded  him. 

"  That,"  he  said,  "  will  lave  me  mother  and 
father  alone,  but  thim  in  America  do  be  sendin* 
every  week  money  to  kape  thim,  an'  they  have 
enough,  an'  somethin'  now  and  thin  to  spare  for  a 
neighbour.  An'  besides  what  comes  from  the 
States,  me  mother  has  the  understandin'  hand  on 
her  for  hins.  They  will  lay  for  her,  whin  they 
won't  for  annybody  else  in  the  County  Galway. 
A  young  lady  came  to  see  her  once,  she  was  from 
the  Agricultural  Department,  where  they  learn 
things  out  of  books,  an'  she  told  herself  to  buy 
some  hard  English  eggs,  an'  they  would  hatch  out 
feather-legged  yeller  chickens  called  Buff  Orping- 
tons. The  grandest  layers  that  iver  was.  An'  me 
mother  bought  six,  an'  Betty,  that's  the  little  black 
hin  that  does  be  doin'  all  me  mother  bids  her,  set 
on  the  eggs  an'  scraped  thim  great  things  to  her 
thin  body  wid  her  wings,  an'  wun  day  thim  eggs 
was  hatched,  an'  six  tall  p'leecemen  of  chickens 
kept  poor  Betty  busy  findin'  food  for  thim.  One 
of  thim  baby  Buffs — they  had  regular  John  Bull 
appetites — ate  as  much  as  three  Irish  chicks,  an' 
me  mother  had  to  put  double  the  meal  in  the  pan, 
but  she  said  whin  they  began  to  lay  thim  big  solid 


GALWAY  333 

eggs  it  would  be  grand.  At  first,  whin  they  was 
so  greedy  an'  gawky,  we  thought  all  of  thim  was 
cocks,  but  four  of  thim  was  preparin'  to  be  bins. 
An'  little  good  did  that  be  doin',  for  divil  of  an  egg 
did  they  lay  whin  they  was  bins.  Day  after  day 
they  threatened,  but  it  was  like  the  English  Par- 
liament givin'  the  Irish  People  Home  Rule,  they 
only  give  hope.  An'  thim  bins  didn't  give  eggs  to 
me  mother,  they  only  give  her  hope.  If  you'll 
belave  it,  in  two  years  all  thim  bins  bechune  thim 
only  give  one  egg." 

"  Then  the  common  or  garden  chickens  are  the 
best?" 

"  Common  Irish  garden  or  backyard  chickens  is 
certainly  the  best.  Whin  the  lady  come  agin,  me 
mother  complained  of  the  Buffs,  an'  the  lady  said 
it  was  the  climate  of  Galway,  it  didn't  suit  thim. 
So  now  me  mother  keeps  to  the  ones  she  knows 
likes  Galway.  Betty  had  a  fine  brood  this  year, 
twelve  of  her  own  an'  two  she  foster-mothered,  an' 
the  old  grey  bin  has  siven." 

"  Is  this  Salthill? "  I  asked,  as  the  tonic,  invigo- 
rating air  blew  across  my  face. 

"  Tis  the  same,  lady." 

"  Then  if  you  please  I'll  get  down  and  walk." 

I  passed  humble  hotels  and  lodging-houses  filled 
with  people  a-holidaying ;  they  bathe  at  all  hours 
of  the  day,  and  drink  salt  water  as  a  tonic,  and 
they  looked  fine  specimens  of  humanity.  Tall 


334  HERSELF— IRELAND 

young  fathers,  and  rosy-cheeked  mothers  and 
babies.  Vigorous  old  men  and  women,  and  strong, 
clean-skinned  girls  chatted  on  balconies  and  door- 
steps, or  loitered  on  the  sidewalk.  One  girl  with- 
out a  hat  came  towards  me,  her  little  sister  bal- 
anced on  her  broad  shoulders,  the  baby  hands 
clinging  to  her  massive  braids  of  hair;  she  smiled 
as  our  paths  crossed,  and  I  thought: 

"  I  do  not  find  a  treasury 
Of  perfect  features,  perfectly 
Planned  with  a  sculptor's  symmetry, 
But  a  face  that  is  full  of  energy 
Yet  soft  like  an  old-time  melody 
In  the  haunting  Celtic  minor  key." 

There  must  be  something  in  the  climate  productive 
of  hair  and  eyelashes,  for  they  both  grow  to  an 
abnormal  length  in  the  county  of  Galway.  I  saw 
perfect  manes  of  splendid  red  hair  and  black  hair, 
and  silvery  fair  hair,  and  nut-brown  hair,  and 
black-brown  hair.  They  brought  to  memory  the 
description  a  friend  who  lives  in  Smyrna  gave  me 
of  the  women  who  once  a  year  stand  in  rows  in  the 
market-place,  exhibiting  and  offering  their  wares 
for  sale.  They  come  from  a  certain  province  in 
Asia  Minor,  where  the  climate  and  water  are  all 
conducive  to  the  growth  of  hair ;  and  these  peasant 
women  count  upon  selling  their  long  braids  at  least 
thrice  in  a  lifetime. 


GALWAY  335 

I  said  to  the  chambermaid  who  was  preparing 
my  bath  in  the  evening,  "  What  thick  hair  you 
have!" 

"  It's  been  thicker,"  she  said,  "  'Tis  long  still, 
not  far  from  my  knees,  but  sure  'tis  nothing  to  me 
cousin  Noreen,  she  that  wint  to  America;  the  ends 
struck  her  ankles,  an'  'twas  six  fair  plaits  she  had, 
three  of  them  on  ayther  side  of  her  head,  an'  the 
American  lady  she  wint  to  live  wid  was  so  sthruck 
wid  it,  she  had  her  let  the  plaits  go  free,  an'  her 
photograph  tuk  like  that.  I  was  offered  in  Belfast 
tin  shillings  a  week  to  sit  three  days  wid  me  hair 
hangin'  down  over  a  chair  in  a  windy." 

"And  did  you  do  it?" 

"  No,  indade,  I'd  been  ashamed  of  me  life  sittin' 
there,  an'  every  man  jack  in  the  town  lukin'  at  me 
loose  hair." 

"  Splendid  hair  is  a  great  beauty,"  I  said. 

"I  think  more  depinds  on  the  nose,"  she  said; 
"  you  can  twist  bits  into  your  hair,  but  you  can't 
twist  a  bit  on  to  your  nose,  nor  take  it  off  nayther. 
We've  all  got  hair,  me  mother  an'  father  an'  all. 
Me  aunt's  is  well  below  her  knees,  an'  not  a  grey 
hair,  though  she  is  sixty  an'  more.  It's  black  yet. 
An'  me  father  had  a  fine  crop  whin  he  died,  an' 
him  one  hundred  and  two." 

"  What!  "  I  said;  "  he  was  more  than  a  hundred 
years  old?" 

"An'   the   priest  said  if  he  had  been  rightly 


336  HERSELF— IRELAND 

counted  up,  he'd  have  a  hundred  an'  four.  Sure 
these  men  in  the  west  do  be  livin'  a  great  while. 
Me  father  was  sixty  whin  he  married  me  mother; 
she  said  he  didn't  look  it,  she  was  twinty,  an*  they 
was  married  forty-two  years  whin  he  died,  but  the 
priest  said  as  me  mother  was  so  young,  me  father 
tuk  off  a  little." 

"  And  were  they  happy?  " 

"  Sure  as  happy  as  the  day  was  long,  an*  me 
mother  had  sivin  childer.  I  have  five  brothers  scat- 
tered about  the  world.  Two  in  the  Army,  an'  sure 
if  the  Germans  don't  shoot  thim  I'll  shoot  thim 
meself  whin  they  come  home,  I'm  that  disgusted 
wid  thim  for  jinin'  up." 

"  Then  you're  a  Sinn  Feiner? "  I  said. 

Her  eyes  flashed. 

"It  matters  not  what  I  am.  I  don't  hould 
wid  the  English,  an*  'tis  their  war,  an'  they  wid 
no  family  feelin'  fightin'  their  own  flesh  an'  blood. 
Sure  ain't  the  German  Imp'ror  first  cousin  to 
George,  an'  him  first  cousin  to  the  Russian  Im- 
p'ror. An'  what's  it  all  about  annyway,  this  cruel 
war?  I've  got  two  sinsible  brothers  in  America,  an' 
one  in  Australia,  an'  me  sister  married,  an'  me 
hotellin'.  Did  ye  ever  hear  of  Slieve  Donagh? 
I  was  there  two  years.  It's  a  grand  place  by  the 
sea,  an'  the  golf  links  all  around  it,  an'  flowers 
an'  grass  growin'  just  outside  the  windy s. 

"  Quare  things  can  happen  in  hotels.    The  last 


GAL  WAY  337 

summer  I  was  there  a  young  gintleman  come  wid 
his  sweetheart  an'  her  sister,  an'  they  tuk  rooms 
on  my  floor.  She  was  a  fine,  handsome  girl,  but 
his  father  had  tried  to  break  off  the  match  and 
couldn't.  One  evenin'  there  was  a  dance,  an'  she 
said  she  had  a  headache  an'  left  the  ballroom,  an* 
made  him  stay  wid  her  sister.  The  next  mornin' 
he  reported  to  the  office  he  had  lost  tin  pounds,  an* 
I  was  that  upset — oh,  I  couldn't  slape — 'twas  my 
rooms  ye  see.  They  got  a  detective  from  Belfast, 
an'  he  asked  me  manny  and  manny  a  question, 
'  Where  was  I  that  evenin',  and  was  the  door 
locked,  an'  did  I  notice  anny  strangers  in  the  hall 
or  near  the  gintleman's  door?'  An'  I  said,  'No, 
not  a  one  but  the  young  lady  he  was  goin'  to 
marry;  I  didn't  know  if  she  was  comin'  from  his 
room,  but  she  was  near  his  door,'  an'  thin  the  de- 
tective frowned  that  deep,  an'  said  that  was 
enough.  An'  after  that  he  questioned  the  young 
lady;  he  had  eyes  that  wint  to  the  back  of  your 
head,  until  she  got  so  nervous  she  broke  down,  an' 
said,  '  I  won't  betray  meself,  I  won't,  I  won't,  you 
can't  make  me.' 

"  The  detective  called  the  young  man  then  and 
said,  '  This  young  lady  has  the  money,  and  will 
return  it  to  you.'  The  young  man  turned  white 
and  said,  '  I  don't  want  it ;  leave  us,  please.'  An* 
no  one  knows  what  passed  between  thim  two,  but 
that  afternoon  he  left  the  hotel,  an'  I  heard  he 


338  HERSELF— IRELAND 

wint  home,  an'  'twas  for  iver  over  between 
thim." 

"  Why  did  she  steal  from  the  man  she  was 
going  to  marry?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  come  out  that  she  was  extravagant,  an' 
wanted  the  money,  an'  she  knew  he  had  it,  an'  she 
was  too  proud  to  ask  for  it  so  she  tuk  it." 

This  indeed  was  a  case  of  grotesque  false  pride, 
but  what  a  lucky  man  to  find  out  the  character  of 
the  woman  he  loved  before,  instead  of  after,  mar- 
riage. The  next  day  of  brilliant  sunshine,  I  set  to 
work  in  industrious  earnest  to  become  acquainted 
with  Galway.  An  open  car  conveyed  me  to  the 
splendid  harbour.  On  our  way  we  passed  two 
tall,  fair  men  walking  rapidly,  and  my  jarvey  told 
me  they  were  the  Squires  Burke.  After  all  these 
generations  they  looked  hardy  Normans,  showing 
their  right  to  be  called,  in  1170,  de  Burgo. 

In  Ireland,  even  the  peasants  make  mention  of 
the  twelfth  or  thirteenth  century  as  if  it  were 
yesterday;  and  why  not,  speaking  as  they  do  the 
language  of  the  demigods,  and  of  the  first  man 
and  the  first  woman?  There  are  archa3ologists 
who  claim  that  Adam  and  Eve,  and  that  persua- 
sive and  meddlesome  serpent,  of  course,  spoke  in 
Gaelic  to  each  other  in  the  Garden  of  Eden. 

The  most  interesting  part  of  Galway  is  the 
Claddagh,  a  picturesque  little  white  straw- 
thatched,  irregular  village,  where  the  hardy  fishing 


GALWAY  339 

people  speak  Irish,  and  have  their  own  laws  and 
by-laws,  and  are  remarkably  free  from  crime.  The 
old  Claddagh  marriage  rings  are  much  sought 
after,  and  are  not  only  interesting  as  curios,  but 
are  beautiful  in  themselves ;  being  hand-carved  out 
of  pure  gold;  the  hard  edges  are  worn  away,  and 
the  model  is  a  little  heart  held  by  two  hands,  the 
whole  device  being  surmounted  by  a  crown.  And 
these  rings  have  slight  differences  according  to 
the  taste  and  the  hand  of  the  artisan.  The  white 
hamlet  which  sparkled  in  the  sunshine  is  said  to  be 
just  outside  the  city  proper,  but  with  the  ancient 
walls  crumbled  and  destroyed,  the  line  is  in- 
visible. There  were  two  picturesque  old-fashioned 
craft  in  the  harbour,  their  strong  patched  terra- 
cotta sails  set  for  a  voyage  to  Arran. 

It  was  not  far  to  drive  from  the  Claddagh  to 
Queen's  College.  The  grounds  were  pleasant  and 
the  custodian  gathered  me  a  little  sweet-smelling 
bouquet  of  pinks,  verbena,  and  geranium.  There 
were  no  students  as  it  was  in  August,  and  though 
the  College  was  a  fine  quadrangular  building,  in 
fair  condition,  it  gave  me  the  impression  of  sad- 
ness. The  newer  diocesan  College  built  on  a  hill 
is  more  cheerful,  commanding  a  view  of  the  water. 

We  drove  through  the  town  to  the  Church  of  St. 
Nicholas — the  patron  saint  of  the  children  of  all 
nationalities,  Santa  Claus,  or  Kris  Kringle,  as  the 
case  may  be — it  is  of  architecture  to  the  taste 


340  HERSELF— IRELAND 

of  the  generous  Saint,  low,  broad,  and  inviting; 
although  the  doors  are  locked  on  week  days  since 
it  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Protestants.  How 
beautiful  it  must  look  at  Christmas,  dressed  with 
the  beloved  pine  trees  of  the  Saint  of  Gifts, 
blazing  with  candles,  and  twinkling  with  stars. 
Although  it  was  erected  in  1320,  it  is  undefaced 
by  the  many  centuries  that  have  crumbled  so 
much  else  in  Ireland. 

In  the  inside  of  the  church  the  tombs  are  lightly 
carved,  and  reminiscent  of  Spain — probably  a 
Spanish  artist  carved  them,  as  in  the  twelfth  and 
thirteenth  centuries  there  was  constant  traffic  be- 
tween Galway,  Spain,  and  Portugal,  which  ac- 
counts for  the  decidedly  Spanish  type  of  many  of 
the  people.  Another  indication  of  their  descent 
is  the  popularity  of  yellow;  a  colour  whose  decora- 
tive qualities  are  not  properly  understood  save  in 
Spanish  countries. 

It  was  midday  when  we  drove  close  to  the  weir ; 
the  hands  were  coming  out  of  the  woollen  mills, 
and  a  number  of  the  girls  and  even  the  men,  wore 
a  touch  of  yellow.  Always  interested  in  manufac- 
tures, I  appreciated  the  honest  stuffs  woven  in 
this  prosperous  mill.  Not  a  thread  is  used  except 
pure  wool,  which  is  sheared  from  the  mountain 
sheep  in  Connaught.  And  the  material,  when 
made  up  into  garments  for  men  and  women,  will 
stand  any  amount  of  hard  wear,  and  neither 


GALWAY  341 

lose  their  colour  nor  shape.  If  one  or  two  of  the 
fashionable  Paris  houses  would  place  these  cloths 
and  tweeds  advantageously  upon  the  market,  the 
industry  would  at  once  leap  into  wide  popularity. 
There  are  other  and  more  primitive  industries  at 
work,  and  I  saw  a  quaint  establishment  that  would 
have  delighted  an  artist.  It  was  a  combination  of 
power-looms,  hand-looms,  spinning- jennies,  and  a 
flour  mill,  and  was  a  most  homely,  floury,  ram- 
shackle, cheerful  place. 

A  never-to-be-forgotten  tragic  link  between 
Galway  and  Spain  is  the  story  of  James  Lynch 
Fitzstephen,  another  Irish  Spartan  father,  and  his 
son.  In  1493  ships  sailed  from  Spain  to  Galway 
laden  with  fine  cargoes;  silks  and  laces,  fans  and 
wine,  fair  linen  cloths,  keen  swords  of  damascened 
steel,  and  green  and  ruby  heavy-stemmed  wine- 
glasses. In  exchange  they  were  loaded  with  great 
bales  of  soft,  thick  Irish  cloth  of  wool,  skins  cured 
and  uncured,  wolf -skins,  and  wild-cat  skins,  Irish 
flannel,  and  salted  salmon  and  pickled  eels,  and 
in  the  winter,  cargoes  of  mutton  and  lamb. 

To  encourage  and  better  the  understanding  be- 
tween the  two  countries,  James  Lynch,  the  Mayor 
of  Galway,  made  a  voyage  to  Spain.  He  received 
lavish  hospitality  from  the  rich  merchants,  but 
especially  from  Senor  Gomez  of  Cadiz;  and,  in 
reciprocation  of  his  kindness,  he  begged  to  take 
back  to  Ireland  his  host's  son,  a  young  Spanish 


342  HERSELF— IRELAND 

grandee  about  the  age  of  his  own  boy.  The  visit 
at  first  proved  a  happy  inspiration,  for  the  two 
young  men  became  as  brothers,  riding  together, 
playing  games  together,  choosing  the  same  friends, 
and,  also,  the  same  inamorata. 

The  lady  was  doubtless  beautiful,  and  a  co- 
quette, leaving  both  men  in  doubt,  or  perhaps  giv- 
ing encouragement  first  to  one  and  then  to  the 
other.  At  the  moment  when  she  was  lavishing  her 
sweetness  on  Gomez,  Lynch,  in  a  wild  passion  of 
jealousy,  slew  his  rival  and  threw  his  body  into 
the  sea.  With  remorse  quickly  gnawing  at  his 
vitals,  he  fled  into  the  woods,  remained  there  all 
night,  but  when  morning  came  determined  to  con- 
fess his  crime  and  give  himself  up  to  justice. 

As  he  walked  towards  the  town  he  met  his 
father,  James  Lynch,  stern  as  an  implacable  Fate, 
commanding  a  squad  of  armed  men.  He  was  ar- 
rested, his  hands  bound  behind  him,  and  marched 
to  the  prison,  which  stood  just  opposite  the 
Mayor's  house.  His  agonised  mother  and  his  two 
younger  sisters  saw  him  enter  the  jail  and  leave 
it  the  next  morning  to  suffer  his  summary  trial. 

It  only  occupied  one  day,  for  the  broken-hearted 
boy  fully  confessed  everything.  With  his  blood 
turned  to  ice,  his  father  pronounced  him  guilty  and 
sentenced  him  to  be  hanged.  But  the  mother's 
heart,  the  one  human  refuge  that  never  fails  in 
Lime  of  stress  or  trouble,  and  only  becomes  more 


GALWAY  343 

tender  and  protecting  in  sorrow  or  disgrace,  rose 
up  in  revolt. 

Madame  Lynch  belonged  to  the  B lakes,  a 
powerful  faction,  who  came  to  her  rescue  and 
added  their  entreaties  with  hers  to  her  husband  for 
mercy.  When  the  stern  father  proved  adamant, 
they  forbade  any  man  to  execute  the  boy.  Even 
though  he  had  outraged  hospitality,  a  more  sacred 
thing  in  those  far-off  days  than  now,  he  was  their 
townsman,  their  kinsman,  and  they  were  relieved  to 
obey  this  order. 

But  they  had  not  counted  on  the  misguided 
sense  of  justice  of  James  Lynch  himself,  who, 
when  he  accompanied  his  son  from  prison,  and  was 
deprived  of  his  armed  escort  by  the  howling  mob, 
seized  the  boy  with  iron  grasp,  led  him  up  the 
stairs  from  the  street,  and,  in  full  sight  of  the 
momentarily  paralysed  crowd,  executed  him.  He 
stood  afterwards  waiting — perhaps  hoping — who 
knows,  that  his  own  life  would  be  taken,  but  a 
cold  horror  had  numbed  the  hearts  and  even  the 
hands  of  the  tempestuous  crowd  who  had  witnessed 
the  dreadful  deed.  In  a  pitiful  silence,  like  a  tor- 
tured spirit,  this  strange  and  unaccountable  man 
disappeared  into  his  house,  never  to  cross  the  door- 
step again.  And  I  daresay  he  was  left  unmolested 
in  his  seclusion,  for  who  wishes  to  invite  a  hang- 
man, and  such  a  unique  hangman,  to  rout  or 
festive  gathering?  Some  member  of  the  Lynch 


344  HERSELF— IRELAND 

family,  six  generations  later,  erected  on  the  place 
of  execution  a  death's  head  and  crossbones  in 
black  marble.  But  no  monument  was  necessary 
to  keep  this  tragedy  from  being  forgotten. 

Curiously  enough,  "  Lynch  law  "  expresses  the 
lightning-quick  execution  of  the  mob  regardless  of 
law,  whereas  the  man  from  whom  it  derived  its 
name  sacrificed  his  own  flesh  and  blood  to  Consti- 
tutional law.  The  French  seem  to  me  to  be  much 
more  understanding  in  dealing  with  a  crime  pas- 
sional. Jealousy  makes  the  noblest  men  and  \ 
women  temporarily  insane ;  we  all  admire  and  weep 
over  Othello,  and  yet  an  English  jury  will  con- 
vict a  man  who  slays  his  rival,  when  in  all  such 
cases,  justice  should  be  tempered  with  mercy.  But 
all  capital  punishment  is,  and  has  ever  been,  a  blot 
upon  civilisation.  It  gives  the  criminal  no  time 
for  repentance,  and  it  brutalises  the  minions  of 
the  law  who  execute  him.  The  very  contemplation 
of  it  is  depressing. 

There  is  nothing  so  good  for  the  darkness  of  the 
spirit  as  the  brightness  of  the  sun,  so  I  struck  out 
for  a  good  long  walk  in  the  country.  A  little 
green  boreen  tempted  me  from  the  main  road,  and 
I  had  not  gone  far  when  I  noticed  a  new  little 
cottage  partly  finished.  It  looked  comfortable,  ex- 
cept for  the  windows,  which  were  much  too  small. 
The  hall  was  fairly  wide,  with  a  door  at  the  end 
which  opened  out  to  what  would  be  in  the  future  a 


GALWAY  345 

garden.  There  were  two  rooms,  one  quite  a  good 
size,  and  a  nice  little  kitchen  with  hot  and  cold 
water-taps,  and  a  practical-looking  range  stamped 
with  an  American  Eagle.  I  went  upstairs,  there 
were  three  bedrooms  and,  to  my  great  astonish- 
ment, a  bathroom  with  an  enamelled  iron  bath,  a 
stationary  washstand,  and  a  medicine  cupboard 
painted  white  with  a  looking-glass  in  the  door.  As 
I  left  the  house  I  saw  a  middle-aged  man  standing 
in  the  boreen  smoking  a  pipe. 

"What  a  nice  little  house,"  I  said;  "do  you 
know  anything  about  it?  " 

"  It's  a  grand  house,  a  grand  house,  indeed,  and 
I  know  all  about  it." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "it's  your  house?" 

"  In  a  manner  of  spakin'  it  is,  for  Herself  and 
Meself  will  live  there,  but  'tis  Maggie's  house  in 
the  law.  We  wanted  it  like  that  on  account  of  the 
other  childer,  so  Maggie  won't  have  anny  trouble 
whin  we're  gone." 

"  Maggie's  in  America? "  I  said. 

"  Thrue  for  you  an'  she  is;  but  how  did  ye  know 
that?" 

"  I  saw  an  American  bath-tub  and  range,"  I 
said.  "  I  am  an  American,  and  know  my  country's 
manufactures.  Did  Maggie  send  them  over?  " 

'  'Twas  she  that  done  the  same,  an'  whin  Tom 
Murphy — he  it  is  that's  buildin'  the  house — first 
saw  the  like,  he  said  he'd  build  no  house  with  such 


346  HERSELF— IRELAND 

tomfoolery  in  it.  But  Maggie  wrote  him  a  sooth- 
erin'  letter — she  can  put  the  eomether  on  anny- 
body,  Maggie  can — an'  thin  he  give  in,  an'  got  a 
plumber  from  Galway;  an'  Maggie  was  plazed 
whin  we  wrote  her  that." 

"  Does  Maggie  know  how  small  the  windows 
are?  "  I  asked.  "  People  in  America  love  big  win- 
dows, they  wouldn't  put  up  with  Tom  Murphy's 
four  little  panes  of  glass  for  a  minute." 

"  They  would,"  said  the  old  man,  "  if  they 
knew  Tom  Murphy.  He's  a  grand  carpenter,  an' 
he  does  grand  work,  but  he  must  have  his  own  way 
an'  take  his  own  time.  We  was  boys  together." 

"  All  the  more  reason  why  he  should  do  what 
you  want.  In  the  large  room  downstairs  and  in 
Maggie's  room,  ask  him  to  make  the  windows 
larger.  I  know  Maggie  loves  sunshine  and  air." 

"  Thrue  for  you,"  said  the  man,  "  perhaps  one 
might,  over  a  glass — but  Tom  Murphy  likes  thim 
windys.  Herself  wanted  thim  larger,  but  he  was 
so  put  about  over  the  bath-tub  she  said,  '  Let  the 
crathur  be.'  " 

"  Maggie  must  like  space,  and  new  ways,  and 
new  things,"  I  said,  "  or  she  wouldn't  have  sent  the 
bath-tub." 

"  She  would  not,"  said  her  father,  "  she  would 
not.  And  we  must  think  of  Maggie ;  she's  a  credit 
to  Oireland  and  to  America.  She  calls  herself  a 
Yankee  now." 


GALWAY  347 

"What  does  Maggie  do?"  I  asked. 

"  She's  a  writer,"  said  her  father. 

"  You  mean,  she  writes  on  a  machine?  " 

"  That's  it,  it's  on  wun  of  thim  machines,  an' 
she  says  there's  none  better  in  Chicago  than  her- 
self. Even  the  min  can't  kape  up  wid  her.  She's 
wid  a  big  firrum;  'tis  thim  made  the  bath-tub  and 
the  range  they  give  her,  whin  they  found  out  she 
was  buildin'  a  house  for  her  mother.  The  man 
what  owns  the  business  is  Irish  too;  he's  a  Cork 
man." 

"  How  did  Maggie  happen  to  go  to  America? " 
I  asked. 

"  I  think  she  was  born  to  it,"  her  father  said. 
"  She  was  always  quick,  Maggie  was,  '  Nimble 
Feet '  her  mother  used  to  call  her  whin  she  was 
almost  a  baby.  An'  soon  she  had  nimble  fingers, 
an'  cud  milk  the  cow,  an'  sew,  an'  she  learned  to 
write  before  anny  of  the  childer  her  own  age. 
An'  thin  her  sister,  who  was  fifteen  years  older 
than  Maggie,  got  married  and  went  to  Chicago. 
Her  husband  is  doin'  grand,  but  they  have  eight 
childer,  an'  all  they  cud  do  for  Maggie  was  to 
give  her  a  home," — eight  mouths  to  feed,  and  yet 
they  welcomed  gladly  their  kin  from  across  the 
sea,  these  generous  Irish  hearts. — "  Our  three 
bhoys  was  all  in  America,  they  are  all  married,  an* 
it  was  Herself  thought  she  couldn't  give  Maggie 
up.  She  was  the  last  an'  we  clung  to  her,  but  the 


348  HERSELF— IRELAND 

colleen  longed  to  go.  She  learned  the  machine  in 
Galway,  an'  she  cud  make  marks  on  paper  an' 
write  it  out  afterwards " 

"  Shorthand,"  I  said. 

"That's  it,"  he  said.  "Before  she  wint  there 
was  a  place  waitin'  for  her.  An'  now  she  writes 
an'  says  she  has  a  great  speed  on  the  machine,  an' 
often  she  can  answer  the  letters  for  the  firrum 
widouth  a  wor-rd  from  the  boss.  An'  she  is  rich, 
Maggie  is,  wid  five  pound  a  week.  Whin  a  neigh- 
bour wrote  an'  said  the  roof  was  laking  on  her 
mother,  'twas  she  sint  a  letter  to  Tom  Murphy, 
an*  it  was  not  impty.  That  letter  had  sixty 
pounds;  more  was  to  come,  an'  she  told  Tom 
Murphy  to  build  a  house." 

"  Right  away,"  I  said. 

"  'Twas  that,  what  the  Yankees  say,  an'  Tom 
Murphy  he  understood  an'  begun  the  house,  'twas 
last  May." 

"  Fourteen  months  ago,"  I  said;  "  Tom  Murphy 
doesn't  follow  Maggie's  example  in  speed.  Poor 
little  Maggie  tearing  away  on  her  machine,  and 
Tom  Murphy  dawdling  about.  I  don't  like  Tom 
Murphy." 

"  Ah,  well,"  philosophically  said  the  old  man, 
"  'tis  a  grand  house,  an*  sure  we'll  be  in  it  before 
Christmas.  Maggie  has  made  some  extra  money 
by  workin'  at  night.  Thim  fingers  of  hers  is  like 
lightnin'.  1*11  go  an'  bring  you  Maggie's  photo- 


GALWAY  349 

graph.  Herself  has  gone  into  Galway  or  she 
would  make  you  a  cup  of  tay;  we  have  tay  an' 
somethin'  else  for  thim  that's  thirsty.  The  three 
bhoys  an'  the  sister  sinds  so  much  a  week,  an' 
Maggie  gives  the  house,  an'  we  be  intirely  com- 
fortable. There's  nothin'  we  want  but  the  childer 
— the  childer,  we  do  be  wantin'  thim,"  and  he 
sighed  heavily. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  to  America?  "  I  asked. 

"  Maybe  wun  day,  but  'tis  the  mother  of  Herself 
we  can't  lave.  She's  an'  ould  ancient  one,  but 
Herself  does  be  doin'  what  she  is  tould  even  now, 
an'  she  wouldn't  be  let  to  go  to  America.  One 
of  the  bhoys  has  been  home  wunce,  an'  Maggie  is 
comin'  whin  the  war  is  over,  an'  bringin'  our 
Mary's  child.  She  is  siventeen,  an'  has  niver  seen 
Oireland." 

"  What  joyous  days  those  will  be,"  I  said. 
"  You  look  a  young  man  to  have  big  grand- 
children." 

"  How  old  do  you  think  I  am,  lady?  " 

I  looked  at  him  standing  in  the  sunlight,  tall, 
straight,  fresh-skinned,  bright-eyed,  and  said, 
"  Fifty— fifty-two." 

"  Sivinty-wun,"  he  said,  "  an'  nivir  a  day's  sick- 
ness in  me  life.  Wait,  lady,  an'  I'll  bring  you  my 
little  Yankee  Maggie." 

Presently  he  returned  with  a  picture  in  a  blue 
plush  frame,  and  I  was  introduced  to  Maggie. 


350  HERSELF— IRELAND 

She  looked  very  American,  dressed  in  a  well- 
fitting  tailored  skirt  and  jacket,  a  soft  blouse  open 
at  the  neck,  a  straw  hat  simply  trimmed,  and 
neat,  well-cut  shoes.  The  face  was  honest  and 
frank,  the  dark  eyes  wide  apart,  the  nose  not  too 
large,  the  mouth  firm,  and  the  chin  square.  Her 
character  was  all  expressed  in  the  photograph. 
Capability,  adaptability,  quickness,  perseverance, 
and  reliability.  Well  done  little  Maggie  across 
the  sea!  Your  silver  chain  unites  Ireland  and 
America  to  your  credit — and  to  theirs. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

EVERGREEN    FRIENDSHIP 

THERE  are  friendships  like  delicate  flowers,  that 
call  for  constant  care  and  attention  to  keep  them 
in  leaf  and  blossom.  There  are  other  friendships 
that  belong  to  a  hardier  order  of  plant,  and  by 
their  own  sturdy  lives  remain  perpetual  ever- 
greens. Neither  silence  nor  absence  wither  their 
leaves,  nor  prevent  their  buds  from  blooming. 
Such  a  friendship  is  mine  with  Nita  Shannon. 
Whether  we  see  each  other  or  not  for  years, 
whether  we  write  constantly  or  lapse  into  silence, 
we  are  sure  of  each  other. 

When  I  came  to  Ireland  Nita  at  once  bade  me 
welcome  to  Oldcourt.  Before  I  ever  saw  her  I 
loved  her  as  "  Cissy's  schoolgirl  sister,"  and  I 
chaperoned  Cissy,  a  rosy,  satin-skinned  eighteen,  in 
a  cloud  of  white  tulle  and  lilies  of  the  valley,  to 
her  first  ball.  Her  uncle,  William  Creagh,  an 
agreeable  bachelor  and  an  indefatigable  dancer, 
saw  that  we  both  enjoyed  the  evening,  and  Cissy, 
of  a  dewy  freshness,  was  greatly  admired,  particu- 
larly by  a  dark-haired  tall  youth,  who  might  have 
had  a  chance  for  her  favour,  but  for  a  little  con- 
tretemps which  made  us  merry  at  his  expense. 

After  bringing  Cissy  back  from  the  fifth  dance 

351 


352  HERSELF— IRELAND 

to  my  protecting  wing,  he  seated  himself  a  little 
distance  away  from  us,  began  talking  to  another 
debutante,  and  nervously  raised  his  heel  from  his 
dancing  shoe.  And  that  nice,  broad  young  heel 
was  quite  bare.  Probably  his  poor  bachelor's  sock 
suffered  from  a  hole  when  he  put  it  on,  and  every 
strand  of  black  silk  had  been  destroyed  by  his 
vigorous  dancing.  In  the  brilliantly  lighted  room 
his  heel  shone  pink  and  glossy  like  a  round, 
enamelled  shell.  When  a  young  girl  has  laughed 
heartily  at  a  young  man  romance  is  destroyed. 
But  even  with  his  socks  quite  new  and  whole,  and 
every  advantage  of  face  and  fortune,  Cissy  would 
have  remained  heart  whole;  for  she  had  already 
divined  her  vocation  to  become  a  mm,  and  only 
waited  to  fulfil  it.  She  thought  it  fair  to  her 
mother  and  to  herself  to  see  the  world,  and  she 
did  see  it  and  enjoyed  it.  But  an  exalted  duty 
called  her  and  she  left  it.  Not  from  disillusion  or 
dissatisfaction  in  life;  her  surroundings  were  all 
happy  and  fortunate,  and  she  herself  was  healthy 
minded,  cheerful,  and  gay.  She  loved  people  and 
movement,  and  dances  and  balls,  and  theatres  and 
operas;  but  she  valued  a  life  of  holiness  and  self- 
abnegation  and  self-sacrifice  more.  And  she  gave 
the  most  beautiful  and  touching  thing  in  the 
world,  a  pure,  young,  clean,  joyous  heart,  to  her 
self -forgetful  calling. 

Nita  has  the  same  joyous  nature,  united  to  a 


EVERGREEN  FRIENDSHIP       353 

rare  sympathy  and  unselfishness,  and  enlivened  by 
the  daring  and  courage  of  the  Irish  temperament. 
The  first  time  she  mounted  a  horse  she  rode  to 
hounds  without  losing  her  seat;  and  when  Mrs. 
Morrough,  her  great-aunt,  left  her  a  valuable  lace 
flounce,  a  centenarian  donkey,  Oldcourt,  one  of 
the  historic  places  in  Doneraile,  and  no  income  to 
keep  up  the  large  house  and  many  acres,  Nita  said 
gaily  to  her  mother,  "  Oh,  we'll  manage  somehow," 
and  she  has  managed,  not  only  to  keep  up  the 
place  but  to  dispense  constant  hospitality. 

She  sent  "  Jerry  the  Jarvey  "  to  the  station  to 
meet  me,  a  car-driver  whose  constant  flow  of  wit 
inspired  his  friend  Alexis  Roche  to  make  him  the 
hero  of  a  book.  But  Mr.  Roche  has  filled  the  book 
with  stories  of  horseplay,  and  not  given  enough  of 
Jerry's  reflections  to  do  justice  to  his  character. 
There  are  one  or  two  worth  remembering. 

"  There's  many  a  thing  I'd  say  to  your  honour 
alone,  that  I  wouldn't  say  before  a  witness." 

And  there  Jerry  is  not  different  from  the  rest 
of  the  world,  for  we  all  say  things  to  one  another 
we  would  hesitate  to  say  before  a  witness. 

And  he  shrewdly  observes,  "  There's  times  when 
the  truth  might  do  better  for  you  than  any  other 
thing  you  could  lay  your  tongue  to,"  and  well  for 
us  when  we  realise  "  the  time."  When  a  woman 
speaks  the  truth,  he  might  have  added,  it  often 
passes  for  wit. 


354  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Miss  Gladstone  asked  Parnell  to  name  the 
best  actor  he  had  ever  seen,  and  he  said,  "  Your 
father."  This  was  a  witty  answer,  and  quite  true. 
All  politicians  are  actors,  and  need  to  be  more 
accomplished  than  those  on  the  stage;  for  actors 
exploit  mock  emotions  only,  while  politicians  must 
constantly  disguise  their  real  opinions  and  feelings. 
I  remember  at  the  St.  James*  Theatre,  when  Guy 
Domville  was  produced,  a  play  by  Henry  James, 
full  of  delicate  suggestions  and  subtleties  far  above 
the  heads  of  the  gallery  gods;  and  amidst  hisses, 
catcalls,  and  boos,  Sir  George  Alexander  stepped 
to  the  footlights  and  said: 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  am  sorry  the  play 
has  not  pleased  you  " — his  voice  quivered  with  pain 
— "  but  believe  me  when  I  say,  that  you  have  hurt 
me  to  the  heart." 

The  very  Irish  Member  of  Parliament  and 
unrivalled  actor  sitting  by  my  side  shook  his  head, 
and  said,  "  Poor  Alexander,  it's  plain  to  be  seen 
he's  not  a  politician  or  he  never  would  have  made 
that  admission." 

"  And  this  is  Doneraile,"  I  said,  as  we  neared  the 
pretty  little  town  in  the  northern  part  of  Cork. 

"  There's  Canon  Sheehan's  house,"  said  the  jar- 
vey,  pointing  to  a  pleasant  cream-coloured  cot- 
tage ;  "  he  was  a  good  man  if  ever  there  was  one, 
as  good  as  his  books;  and  we  have  a  thousand 
pounds  for  his  memorial,  three  hundred  pounds 


EVERGREEN  FRIENDSHIP       355 

was  sint  from  America,  but  by  this  and  by  that, 
they  can't  agree  to  it.  Some  wants  one  thing, 
and  some  wants  another." 

Remembering  General  John  Regan  I  asked 
"  if  they  wanted  a  statue? " 

"That's  just  what  the  farmers  do  want;  a 
statue  of  the  Canon  standin'  wid  a  wise  luk  on  his 
face,  an'  a  book  in  his  hand.  But  the  priests  and 
the  people  closer  at  home  would  like  stained-glass 
windys  for  the  chapel.  Sure  the  sunlight  comes 
pourin'  in  on  the  altar,  an'  'twould  be  well  for 
the  light  to  be  more  subdued,  an'  I'm  thinkin' 
'twould  be  windys  Himself  would  have  wanted." 

"  And  what  do  you  suppose  will  happen?  " 

"That's  past  all  tellin',"  said  Jerry;  "  thim 
farmers  do  be  set  on  an  image,  but  the  wuns  for 
the  windys  do  be  very  fir-rum." 

I  only  got  a  flying  glimpse  of  Doneraile  Court. 
There  are  many  interesting  country  seats  of 
county  families  scattered  about  Doneraile,  and 
before  the  war  fox-hunting,  steeplechasing,  riding, 
and  soldiers  from  the  little  garrison  town  of 
Buttevant,  a  short  distance  away,  made  the  little 
town  gay. 

Nita  and  her  mother  were  on  the  steps  to  give 
me  warm  welcome,  and  I  felt  at  home  at  once  in 
the  cheerful  mansion,  which  was  so  like  many  of 
the  old  Colonial  houses  in  Virginia.  What  a  vast 
difference  there  is  in  houses.  Those  that  are  low- 


356  HERSELF— IRELAND 

lying,  damp,  and  closed  in  with  dark  shrubbery, 
seem  to  hold  all  the  tragedies  and  unhappiness  of 
the  former  owners,  while  those  open  to  the  air 
and  light  are  cheerful,  and  seem  to  be  impressed 
with  the  gaiety  and  happiness  of  past  generations. 
The  gardens  of  Oldcourt  lie  to  the  right,  and  the 
climate  is  so  mild  in  that  part  of  the  country,  that 
flowers  bloom  late  in  the  autumn  and  early  in  the 
spring.  In  front  of  the  house  is  a  wide  open 
sweep  of  lawn,  which  invites  every  ray  of  sun- 
shine and  ensures  a  cheerful  distance  between  the 
splendid  trees  and  woods  which  surround  the  place. 
It  was  a  fragrant,  lovely,  midsummer  moon- 
light night,  and  after  dinner  we  sat  on  the  porch. 
The  lawn  had  been  mown,  and  there  was  a  scent  of 
sweet  vernal  in  the  air  from  a  small  haystack  not 
far  away.  From  it  apparently  proceeded  a  long, 
gentle  whistling,  not  unmusical,  snore.  Nit  a  said 
she  thought  a  drunken  tramp  had  gone  to  sleep 
under  the  fresh  straw,  and  she  must  go  down  to 
the  lodge  and  get  Murphy  to  rouse  him  up  and 
persuade  him  away.  I  assured  her  it  was  only  a 
cow  with  adenoids,  but  that  theory  was  unsatis- 
factory, and  finally  we  both  tip-toed  gently  over  to 
the  haystack,  circled  around  it,  and  there  was 
neither  man  nor  beast  to  be  seen.  The  sound 
ceased,  and  only  recommenced  when  we  were  in 
our  bedrooms.  After  dinner  the  next  evening  the 
same  whistling  snore  began  again,  and  Philip 


EVERGREEN  FRIENDSHIP       357 

Barry,  who  was  dining  with  us,  said  it  was  an 
owl  and  proved  it  by  going  to  an  old  oak  tree  at 
the  right  of  the  haystack  and  rousing  up  a  big 
horned  owl,  who  uttered  a  sharp  protesting  note  at 
being  disturbed  from  his  whistling  slumbers  and 
flew  away. 

I  looked  in  vain  for  the  most  cheerful  ghost  in 
all  the  ghost  world—"  The  Radiant  Boy  "—who, 
clothed  in  dark  blue,  is  bright  with  stars  and  sits 
on  an  old  iron  gate  on  the  Mallow  Road,  threaten- 
ing to  throw  a  brilliant  missile  at  the  passer-by. 
He  was  not  always  an  open-air  ghost,  for  about 
a  hundred  years  ago,  which  is  no  time  at  all  in 
Ireland,  Captain  Stuart  came  to  Fort  Lewis,  now 
called  "  Wilkinson's  Lawn,"  and  having  lost  his 
way  craved  the  hospitality  of  Colonel  Wilkinson 
for  the  night,  who  made  him  welcome,  but,  as  his 
house  was  overflowing  with  guests,  gave  him  a 
room  which  was  rarely  used.  A  bright  fire  of* 
logs  blazed  on  the  hearth  and  a  good  mattress  and 
clean  bedclothes  had  been  placed  not  far  from  it. 
Tired  from  the  day's  shooting  and  wandering  in 
unknown  country,  he  soon  slept  soundly.  But 
at  twelve  o'clock  he  awoke;  the  roaring  fire  was 
blackened  ashes  and  a  Boy  luminous  with  silver 
stars  stood  before  him.  He  was  terribly  frightened 
and  hid  his  head  under  the  bedclothes,  but  the  light 
seemed  to  penetrate  through  the  blankets,  and 
when  he  looked  out  the  Boy  was  still  there.  In 


358  HERSELF— IRELAND 

the  morning  he  told  his  experience  to  Colonel 
Wilkinson,  who  said  with  the  house  full  he  had 
been  obliged  to  put  him  in  the  "  Boy's  Room,"  but 
he  hoped  a  blazing  fire  would  discourage  the  ap- 
parition— evidently  it  had  not. 

When  Fort  Lewis  was  burnt  down,  it  was  then 
the  Boy  appeared  sitting  on  the  old  iron  entrance 
gate  of  Ballydineen  House.  He  only  makes  rare 
appearances  now,  which  is  a  pity  as  he  must  be  a 
lovely  shining  apparition.  And  he  is  only  one  of 
the  many  Doneraile  ghosts  of  decided  originality. 

Nine  green  cats  continually  march  up  and  down 
the  Glen  that  begins  at  Byblox  and  ends  at  Bally- 
dineen. They  cry  out  in  hollow  voices,  "  Ohee — 
Ahyeh !  "  Perhaps  these  green  ghosts  were  starved 
for  milk,  as  they  often  run  up  and  overturn  the 
milk  cans  of  maids  or  men  milking  in  the  morn- 
ing. An  ovoid-shaped  ball  of  soft  yellow  light 
keeps  about  three  feet  from  the  ground  and  travels 
from  Ballyandrew  into  Doneraile  Park.  But  if 
any  one  comes  near  it,  a  semi-transparent  racing 
skeleton  is  seen  to  hold  the  ball  in  his  hands.  The 
Far  Dharrig  seems  to  be  a  most  attractive  ghost, 
as  he  answers  the  description  of  a  favourite  china 
figure,  being  a  rosy-faced  little  man  about  three 
feet  high,  dressed  in  green  breeches,  a  gay  red 
coat,  and  a  black  sugar-loaf  hat.  He  never  wan- 
ders, but  confines  himself  to  Ballydineen. 

I  went  as  late  as  I  could  to  Doneraile  Bridge, 


EVERGREEN  FRIENDSHIP       359 

hoping  to  meet  the  flying  yellow  dog  which 
watches  the  road  at  the  turnpike,  waiting  for  a 
black  ram.  When  he  appears  they  both  proceed 
to  other  interesting  friends  in  Oldcourt  church- 
yard. Probably  they  confine  themselves  to  the 
orthodox  midnight  appearance,  and  I,  not  late 
enough  for  that,  missed  them.  A  man  dressed  in 
a  tall  hat,  knee-breeches,  and  frieze  coat  also  walks 
Oldcourt  Bridge  at  midnight.  Another  attractive 
ghost  connected  with  Doneraile  Park  is  the  Pooka, 
a  shaggy,  black  colt  with  mild  eyes,  who  now  and 
again  is  seen  trotting  into  the  Park.  The  first 
Viscount  Doneraile  occasionally  rides  in  the  Park 
himself  with  a  full  pack  of  hounds  in  pursuit  of 
a  stag.  Many  people  have  heard  the  horn,  and  cry 
of  the  dogs,  and  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  as  they 
rush  past. 

The  night  that  the  fourth  Viscount  Doneraile 
died,  in  the  month  of  August,  a  farmer  from 
Sycamore  was  going  to  Mallow  driving  a  mare 
and  cart.  Just  outside  Doneraile  on  the  Mallow 
Road,  near  the  Kennels,  a  shaggy  monster  hound 
bounded  over  the  wall  and  preceded  a  great 
coach  drawn  by  four  headless  horses.  Rushing 
out  of  the  Kennel  gate  they  were  followed  by  a 
second  great  hound,  and  they  all  ran  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Doneraile.  The  eyes  of  the  farmer's  mare 
started  out  of  her  head,  she  sprang  forward  as  if 
she  had  received  a  cut  from  a  whip,  and  ran  until 


360  HERSELF— IRELAND 

she  was  white  with  foam,  and  he  had  to  go  back 
with  her  to  Sycamore. 

A  romantic  Doneraile  ghost  is  a  daughter  of 
William  St.  Leger,  who  about  1573  fell  in  love 
with  a  young  Irish  chieftain.  Her  father  set  his 
stern  face  against  this  union  of  hearts,  and  Roche 
was  killed  at  Crognaru  by  the  followers  of  Sir 
William.  The  young  lady  went  into  a  decline  and 
was  found  dead  near  a  wall  between  Crognaru  and 
Ballyandrew;  and  to  this  day,  when  night  falls, 
like  a  big  whire  moth  she  drops  over  the  wall  and 
waits  in  the  same  trysting-place  to  meet  her 
ghostly  lover.  The  second  Viscount  Doneraile  is 
also  restless,  as  he  is  frequently  met,  dressed  in 
leggings  and  hunting  costume,  riding  a  powerful 
black  horse  toward  Richardstown. 

Doneraile  Court  has  many  interesting  stories 
connected  with  it,  but  none  better  known  than  the 
history  of  the  Hon.  Elizabeth  St.  Leger,  who  in 
1713  was  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  Free- 
masonry. 

The  Lodge  at  that  time  was  held  in  a  room  to 
the  west  side  of  the  entrance  hall.  The  partition 
was  undergoing  repair,  and  one  of  the  bricks  had 
tumbled  down  near  the  chair  where  Miss  St.  Leger 
had  been  reading  a  somnolent  book  which  had  put 
her  to  sleep.  When  she  awakened  she  heard  voices 
in  the  next  room,  saw  the  proceedings  of  the 
Lodge,  and  becoming  agitated  opened  the  door 


EVERGREEN  FRIENDSHIP,       361 

to  enter  the  hall  and  met  Tyler,  Lord  Doneraile's 
butler,  who  was  evidently  a  Mason,  for  he  at  once 
called  his  master.  After  a  consultation  of  the 
members,  they  decided  the  best  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty was  to  make  the  eavesdropper  a  Freemason. 
Doubtless  she  made  a  very  creditable  one,  for  her 
portrait  represents  a  strong-minded  lady,  painted 
in  a  Freemason's  apron,  with  her  hand  resting  on 
the  open  page  of  the  Book  of  Mysteries,  and  her 
finger  pointing  to  an  important  chapter.  Lady 
Castletown  has  one  of  the  jewels  she  wore,  and  the 
other  is  in  the  Lodge  at  Cork. 

I  knew  a  Southern  lady  who  was  a  Freemason. 
She  was  a  young,  beautiful  bride,  the  wife  of  a 
distinguished  Confederate  officer,  and  her  planta- 
tion lay  directly  in  the  route  of  Sherman's  march 
to  the  sea.  All  houses  were  to  be  burned,  she  was 
alone,  the  fate  of  the  women  was  uncertain ;  to  give 
her  protection  her  husband  asked  that  she  should 
receive  the  first  degree  of  the  order  of  Freemasons. 
This  is  probably  the  only  instance  of  a  woman 
Freemason  in  America. 

The  Right  Hon.  Lord  Doneraile  raised  a  Volun- 
teer Corps  called  the  Doneraile  Rangers  in  1779. 
It  consisted  of  a  cavalry  corps  of  light  dragoons. 
They  were  magnificent  in  scarlet  uniform  faced 
with  green  and  edged  with  white,  and  gold  epau- 
lets, buttons,  and  helmets.  The  March  of  the 
Doneraile  Rangers  was  so  inspiring,  that  when  one 


362  HERSELF— IRELAND 

of  the  soldiers  was  sentenced  to  death  in  Dublin, 
he  asked  the  Sheriff  to  allow  him  as  a  last  favour 
to  dance  on  the  scaffold  to  this  lively  tune.  To  see 
a  dance  of  death  attracted  a  large  crowd.  Lady 
Doneraile  driving  in  her  carriage  asked  why  they 
had  assembled,  and  was  told  the  circumstances. 
She  bade  the  coachman  whip  the  horses  to  Dublin 
Castle,  and  got  a  reprieve.  It  would  have  been 
a  crime  against  gaiety  to  execute  a  man  with  so 
irresponsible  a  temperament  that  he  could  nimbly 
caper  on  the  scaffold  with  a  rope  around  his  neck. 
Doneraile  Court  dates  back  to  1636,  when  Sir 
William  St.  Leger  bought  various  lands.  The 
house,  which  faces  the  River  Awbeg  (Spenser's 
Mulla),  is  surrounded  by  many  beautiful  acres; 
the  extensive  gardens  include  a  wilderness,  a  laby- 
rinth, and  a  canal;  at  the  end  of  the  demesne  the 
river  is  broad  and  deep.  In  the  fine  deer  park  t&e 
trees — tall  elms,  ash,  birch,  Spanish  chestnuts, 
gnarled  oaks  and  beautiful  fir  trees — grow  to  a 
magnificent  height.  The  elaborate  and  exquisite 
gardens,  so  beloved  by  Lady  Castletown,  with  their 
thickets  of  herbaceous  borders  and  great  beds  of 
flowers — which  include  almost  every  plant  that 
blooms — with  all  their  loveliness,  are  of  less  inter- 
est to  me  than  the  many  legends  connected  with 
the  place.  I  do  not  know  whether  Lord  Castle- 
town  has  ever  seen  any  of  the  Good  People,  but 
he  believes  in  them;  and  I  imagine  in  that  fra- 


EVERGREEN  FRIENDSHIP       363 

grant,  friendly  old  garden  they  often  dance  until 
the  break  of  day. 

There  is  a  famous  curse  connected  with  Done- 
raile,  which  is  of  more  than  usual  interest,  as  it 
afterwards  was  changed  into  a  blessing: 


"Alas!  how  dismal  is  my 

tale 
I     lost     my     watch     in 

Doneraile. 
My    Dublin    watch,    my 

chain   and   seal 
Pilfer'd       at       once       in 

Doneraile. 
May    fire   and   brimstone 

never   fail, 
To    fall    in    showers    on 

Doneraile, 
May  all  the  deadly  fiends 

assail 
The     thieving     town     of 

Doneraile. 
As  lightnings  flash  across 

the  vale 
So    down    to    Hell    with 

Doneraile. 
The  fate  of  Pompey  at 

Pharsale, 
Be    that     the    curse    of 

Doneraile." 


"  How    vastly    pleasing    is 

my  tale, 
I    found    my    watch    at 

Doneraile. 
My    Dublin    watch,    my 

chain    and    seal, 
Were     all     restored     at 

Doneraile. 
May   fire   and   brimstone 

ever   fail, 
To      hurt       or      injure 

Doneraile. 
May  neither  fire  nor  foe 

assail 
The    generous    town    of 

Doneraile. 
May      lightnings      never 

singe     the    vale 
That    leads    to     darling 

Doneraile. 
May    Pompey's    fate    at 

old   Pharsale, 
Be      still      reversed      at 

Doneraile." 


In  1829  there  was  a  conspiracy  at  Doneraile, 
and  the  men  suspected  were  in  great  danger  of 


364  HERSELF— IRELAND 

their  lives,  until  the  eleventh  hour  when  O'Con- 
nell  was  employed  to  defend  them.  After  travel- 
ling all  night  he  arrived  at  Cork  and  proceeded 
to  the  Court  where  a  simple  breakfast  was  served 
him.  On  hearing  the  legal  proposition  unguard- 
edly stated  by  the  Solicitor- General,  O'Connell, 
with  his  mouth  full  of  bread  and  milk,  spluttered 
out,  "That  is  not  law."  The  Solicitor-General 
insisted  it  was,  and  the  Court  was  appealed  to ;  the 
decision  rested  in  O'Connell's  favour.  Rather 
crestfallen,  the  Solicitor-General  was  soon  pulled 
up  again  for  referring  to  an  Act  of  Parliament 
which  O'Connell  knew  was  only  passed  for  a 
limited  time.  "  That  Act  has  expired,"  he  called 
out.  This  was  the  second  blow,  and  all  through 
the  trial  he  hectored  the  Solicitor-General;  and, 
not  content  with  browbeating  the  witnesses,  he 
finally  succeeded  in  browbeating  the  Solicitor- 
General  himself.  During  the  proceedings  he 
threatened  him  with  impeachment  in  the  House  of 
Commons  for  his  unfair  mode  of  conducting  the 
prosecution. 

"The  allegation  is  made  on  false  facts,"  the 
Solicitor-General  said. 

"False  facts,  Mr.  Solicitor,"  said  O'Connell 
jeeringly.  "  How  can  facts  be  false?  " 

The  end  of  the  Doneraile  trial  was  that  O'Con- 
nell succeeded  in  getting  the  witnesses  in  such  a 
tangle,  and  made  them  contradict  themselves  so 


EVERGREEN  FRIENDSHIP       365 

often,  that  the  jury  in  five  minutes  brought  in  a 
verdict  of  "  Not  guilty." 

With  his  nimble  mind  and  appreciation  of  the 
many  sides  of  life,  O'Connell  disdained  no  means 
of  winning  a  case;  he  even  employed,  if  the  occa- 
sion demanded,  what  actors  would  call  "  stage 
properties." 

At  the  Clare  Assizes  in  Ennis  two  brothers 
named  Hourigan  were  indicted  for  maliciously  set- 
ting fire  to  a  police  barracks,  and  it  was  stated  that 
the  barracks  had  been  ignited  by  means  of  a  jar 
of  pitch.  O'Connell,  who  was  employed  for  the 
defence,  had  a  skillet  containing  pitch  secretly 
placed  under  the  chair  of  the  chief  witness,  and 
over  this  he  placed  his  own  broad-brimmed  hat  so 
effectually  as  to  conceal  it.  Bennett  swore  that 
he  had  observed  the  barrack  on  fire,  and  knew  it 
was  set  on  fire  by  pitch,  for  he  smelt  it.  He  was 
then  cross-examined  by  O'Connell. 

"  You  know  the  smell  of  pitch  then? "  said 
O'Connell. 

"  I  do  well,"  replied  the  witness. 

"  You  can  smell  pitch  anywhere? "  said  O'Con- 
nell. 

"  Yes,  anywhere." 

"  Even  in  this  Courthouse,  if  it  was  here?  " 

"  Without  doubt  I  would." 

"  And  do  you  swear  you  do  not  get  the  smell  of 
pitch  here? "  asked  O'Connell. 


366  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"  I  do  solemnly  swear  it,"  replied  the  witness ; 
"  if  it  was  here  I'd  smell  it." 

Then  O'Connell  taking  his  hat  off  the  skillet  of 
pitch,  which  was  placed  underneath  the  witness's 
chair,  cried,  "  Now  go  down  you  pitch-perjured 
rascal.  Go  down." 

This  saved  his  client,  for  the  jury  in  high  good- 
humour  discredited  the  witness. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MITCHELSTOWN  CASTLE  AND  AN  IRISH 
ROMANCE 

AMONG  other  pleasant  experiences  in  Doneraile, 
Philip  Barry  motored  us  to  Mitchelstown.  The 
day  was  perfect.  An  Italian  sky  flecked  with 
silver  clouds,  the  air  balmy,  and  yet  with  a  hint  of 
the  coolness  of  autumn  underlying  the  warm  sun- 
shine. We  travelled  through  the  county  of  Cork, 
which  was  as  brilliantly  green  as  if  a  June  sun 
shone  upon  the  grass  and  late  blooming  flowers. 
There  were  many  points  of  interest  on  our  way. 
Kindly  looking  old  houses  with  porticos  of  Greek 
design,  picturesque  cottages  with  thatched  roofs, 
and  country  seats  surrounded  by  many  acres. 

"We  will  see,"  said  our  kind  host,  "midway 
between  Doneraile  and  Buttevant,  Spenser's  Cas- 
tle of  Kilcolman,  now  an  ivy -grown  ruin;  but  it  is 
possible  still  to  climb  the  moss-grown  staircase, 
and  to  view  the  wide  and  beautiful  country  stretch- 
ing to  far-away  green  plains.  It  was  on  this  spot 
that  Spenser  wrote  his  immortal  poem  of  the 
'  Faerie  Queen,'  and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  when  he 
came  to  visit  him  was  welcomed  by  '  Colin  Clout's 
Come  Home  Agagn.'  Although  the  charm  and 

367 


368  HERSELF— IRELAND 

beauty  of  Ireland  has  been  his  inspiration,  Spenser 
was  traitorously  ungrateful  to  her,  for  he  wrote  a 
paper,  published  in  1635,  advocating  the  abolition 
of  the  inhabitants." 

"  He  did  not  realise,"  I  said,  "  that  though  the 
Irish  of  that  day  might  have  suffered  wholesale 
butchery,  the  future  generation  of  children  born  in 
Ireland  would  have  been  Irish — for  human  beings 
are  as  much  a  product  of  the  soil  as  flowers  and 
plants.  Nature  takes  aliens  to  her  absorbing 
breast  and  re-nationalises  them.  The  Pole  of  to- 
day is  the  American  of  to-morrow.  The  Eng- 
lishman of  to-day  is  the  Irishman  of  to-morrow. 
The  great  scheme  of  creation  permits  no  inter- 
ference with  her  plans  and  products.  It  is 
impossible  to  circumvent  her.  Crepe  myrtle  or 
yellow  jessamine  will  not  grow  out  of  the  South. 
Edelweiss  will  only  grow  on  the  top  of  a  moun- 
tain." 

"  Yes,"  said  Philip  Barry,  "  the  descendants  of 
English  Protestants  in  Ireland  may  re-echo  Eng- 
lish opinion  and  sentiment,  but  their  hearts  and 
natures,  and  the  very  fibres  of  their  being,  are 
Irish.  They  cannot  change  what  Irish  soil,  and 
clouds,  and  sun,  and  rain,  and  dew  have  made 
them.  There  are  differences  in  Ireland,  of  course, 
between  the  North  and  the  South,  as  there  are  in 
every  country  between  the  North  and  the  South, 
but  in  essential  points  they  are  the  same  people. 


MITCHELSTOWN  CASTLE        369 

"  A  Northerner  was  trying  to  explain  to  an 
Irishman  in  Cork  that,  geographically,  Ulster  was 
a  different  part  of  Ireland,  and  the  man  from 
Cork  said,  'Whist  man!  is  your  nose  a  different 
part  of  your  face?  or  your  arm  a  different  part  of 
your  body? '  And  whatever  the  future  contains 
for  Ireland,  certainly  Ulster  is  an  integral  part  of 
it,  and,  contrariwise,  nothing  is  more  convincing  of 
the  unity  of  the  Irish  people  than  their  diverse 
religions.  The  zealous  Faith  of  the  Catholics,  and 
their  strenuous  example,  have  made  Protestants 
almost  equally  devout  in  the  practise  of  their  re- 
ligion." 

"Both  Protestants  and  Catholics,"  I  said, 
"  seem  to  me  simple  people,  easily  influenced  and 
led  by  their  leaders,  politicians,  who  for  the  most 
part  of  all  classes,  creeds,  and  countries  are  look- 
ing to  their  own  interests.  Spenser,  though  a  poet, 
was  a  politician,  and  he  paid  dearly,  if  I  remember, 
for  his  bitter  advocacy  of  Irish  race  annihilation. 
His  castle  was  burned,  and  he  and  his  family 
escaped  with  difficulty  to  England,  where,  having 
contracted  pneumonia  on  his  perilous  voyage,  he 
died  almost  penniless.  But  tell  me  about  Mitchels- 
town,  is  it  an  old  castle? " 

"  No,  the  castle  is  modern,  but  the  ancestry  of 
the  Kingston  family  goes  back  to  FitzGibbon  the 
White  Knight,  a  man  who  betrayed  his  kinsman 
Desmond  at  the  instigation  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 


370  HERSELF— IRELAND 

and  thus  kept  his  four  hundred  thousand  acres — 
a  splendid  estate  once  upon  a  time,  but  now  poor 
and  heavily  encumbered.  I've  got  a  book  in  my 
pocket  with  a  description  by  an  Englishman,  who 
wrote  seventy  years  ago,  of  Mitchelstown ;  it  an- 
swers to-day.  Perhaps  you  will  read  it  to  us." 

"  From  afar  off,  as  soon  as  the  traveler  enters 
the  beautiful  valley  which  bears  its  name,  the  tower 
and  battlements  of  Mitchelstown  are  distinguished 
rising  above  the  surrounding  woods.  The  gates 
are  at  all  hours  open  to  the  public;  it  is  said  that 
nothing  delights  Lord  Kingston  so  much  as  to  see 
people  enjoying  themselves  in  his  demesne.  In 
England  the  passage  of  vehicles  through  the  Park 
would  be  considered  by  most  squires  an  annoyance, 
but  at  Mitchelstown  Lord  Kingston  would  scarcely 
permit  a  carriage  to  enter  without  rushing  out  to 
greet  the  occupants  and  inviting  them  to  make  a 
survey  of  his  castle  and  its  grounds. 

"  No  long,  chilling  avenue  depresses  the  visitor 
before  the  lawn  and  pleasure-grounds  are  reached, 
and  the  Castle  stands  before  you,  a  pile  of  cas- 
tellated buildings,  extensively  and  elegantly  pro- 
portioned, and  built  of  stone  of  the  purest  white, 
quarried  from  the  hills  of  the  estate. 

"  Nothing  can  be  more  simple  in  arrangement 
than  the  interior.  A  noble  flight  of  steps  leads 
from  the  entrance-doors  into  the  gallery,  150  feet 
in  length.  At  the  other  end  of  this  gallery  a  cor- 


MITCHELSTOWN  CASTLE        371 

responding  flight  of  stairs  leads  to  the  upper 
chambers.  The  gallery  is  lighted  by  many  oriel 
windows,  the  fire-places  are  of  knightly  character 
and  blazon,  designed  expressedly  for  the  Castle. 
Doorsteps  from  the  gallery  open  into  the  noble 
reception-rooms,  and  overhead  are  two  ranges  of 
bed-chambers,  sixty  principal  and  twenty  inferior 
bedrooms.  In  an  emergency  as  many  as  a  hundred 
persons  have  been  accommodated  with  chambers 
in  the  mansion. 

"  The  stables  of  the  Douglases,  made  famous  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  did  not  boast  more  ample  ac- 
commodation. Four-and-twenty  steeds  may  here 
be  kept  ready  for  war  or  chase. 

"  The  gardens  of  Mitchelstown  have  long  been 
celebrated;  the  noble  Earl  himself  took  special 
pleasure  in  them.  It  is  indeed  a  remarkable  sight 
to  see,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  festoons  and 
bunches  of  grapes;  some  of  them  are  the  black 
Hamburgh  variety  brought  to  the  utmost  per- 
fection here,  and  there  is  one  vine  said  to  rival  in 
size  and  fruit  the  famous  vine  of  Hampton  Court. 
There  is  a  lodge  for  the  reception  of  picnic  parties, 
who  from  time  immemorial  have  been  permitted 
the  free  range  of  grounds  and  gardens,  and  to 
inspect  the  castle  on  application  at  the  door. 
Many  a  family  fault  and  failing  may  be  con- 
sidered amply  remedied  by  this  attention  to  the 
Stranger. 


372  HERSELF— IRELAND 

"  When  English  people  hear  of  a  nobleman's 
seat  which  there  is  difficulty  in  visiting,  they  can 
contrast  it  with  Mitchelstown,  where  every  visitor 
of  whatever  station  is  provided  for,  welcomed,  and 
even  invited  to  return.  Lord  Kingston  does  that 
which  the  well-bred  noblemen  of  England  are  far 
too  slow  to  do;  invites  to  Mitchelstown,  without 
distinction  of  rank  or  title,  all  who  can  derive 
enjoyment  from  it. 

"  '  If  you  are  a  scholar,'  says  the  noble  lord, 
writing  a  friend,  '  you  shall  be  conducted  to  scenes 
recounted  in  history;  if  you  are  a  lover  of  the  pic- 
turesque, you  shall  have  a  room  with  a  dozen  beau- 
tiful prospects;  if  you  are  a  sportsman,  the  horse 
and  hounds  invite  you  to  follow  them;  and  there 
are  hills  abounding  with  grouse,  and  streams  alive 
with  trout.  Bring  your  gun,  or  rod,  or  pencil,  or 
your  book,  you  shall  be  equally  welcome  and 
equally  gratified.' " 

"  There,"  I  said.  "  Isn't  that  a  splendid  de- 
scription of  a  castle  and  Irish  hospitality? " 

"Naturally,"  said  Philip  Barry,  "with  this 
open-hearted  and  exhaustless  hospitality,  the  Earl 
of  Kingston  got  into  money  difficulties.  A  mort- 
gage was  to  be  foreclosed,  writs  were  issued.  For 
a  time  the  martial  spirit  of  his  ancestors  asserted 
itself,  Lord  Kingston  and  his  friends  held  a  sort  of 
siege  against  the  Sheriff  and  his  men,  but  eventu- 
ally the  Castle  doors  were  opened,  the  Earl  of 


MITCHELSTOWN  CASTLE        373 

Kingston  drove  away,  and  the  men  took  possession 
of  the  Castle  and  its  property." 

"  And  are  we  to  meet  the  present  Earl  of 
Kingston? " 

"  No,  the  Castle  has  passed  into  the  hands  of  Mr. 
William  Downes  Webber,  through  the  death  of  his 
wife,  a  Countess  of  Kingston." 

Meanwhile  we  had  neared  the  little  town  of 
Mitchelstown  and  asked  a  fresh-faced  young  coun- 
tryman whether  to  turn  to  the  right  or  the  left,  and 
he  answered  in  a  manner  characteristically  Irish — 
"  Go  to  the  right,  it  will  take  you  through  the 
town  and  you  will  come  to  a  little  round  square; 
pass  to  the  left  of  the  round  square,  then  take  the 
road  straight  on,  and  that  will  lead  you  to 
Mitchelstown  Castle."  He  made  a  gesture  of  a 
half -circle  with  one  arm,  and  cut  an  angle  with  the 
hand  and  wrist  of  the  other,  to  indicate  the  topog- 
raphy of  a  round  square.  We  followed  his  direc- 
tions and  found  the  "  square "  but  not  the 
"  round."  A  few  minutes  later  the  Castle  was 
disclosed  to  us.  It  was  built  by  the  Earl  of  King- 
ston in  anticipation  of  a  visit  of  George  IV,  who 
said  on  his  arrival  at  Howth,  "  Kingston,  King- 
ston, you  black-whiskered,  good-natured  fellow,  I 
am  delighted  to  see  you  in  this  hospitable  country.'* 

"  The  Irish  are  not  snobs,"  said  Nita,  "  but 
being  instinctively  gentlefolk — they  have  tradition 
behind  them  to  make  them  so — they  appreciate 


374  HERSELF— IRELAND 

other  gentlefolk.  If  a  Royalty  had  lived  among  us, 
had  appealed  to  our  loyalty,  had  encouraged  our 
industries,  and  had  appreciated  our  exalted  ideal 
of  nationality,  The  Irish  Question  would  have 
been  settled  long  ago.  But  the  Royalties  have 
been  afraid  of  Ireland.  They  have  believed  every- 
thing which  has  been  told  them  by  interested  poli- 
ticians, and  Ireland  has  been,  and  is,  a  victim  to 
ignorance  and  misrepresentation." 

The  door  opened  and  disclosed  a  fine  wide  hall, 
splendidly  lighted  and  hospitable  in  atmosphere. 
In  spite  of  its  great  size  Michelstown  is  all  that  a 
castle  should  be,  and  usually  is  not.  The  windows 
are  large  enough  to  let  in  plenty  of  light  and  air, 
and  the  huge  house  is  easily  heated.  The  rooms 
are  magnificently  spacious,  and  the  bedroom  fur- 
nished for  King  George  is  solidly  impressive  and 
pleasingly  luxurious.  The  wall  is  hung  in  a 
French  paper,  that  one  often  sees  in  the  chateaux 
of  France;  it  gives  the  impression  of  old-rose  bro- 
cade drapery ;  the  windows  are  warm  with  rich  silk 
hangings,  and  the  view  of  the  distant  mountains  is 
enchanting.  The  carpet  is  thick  enough  to  render 
the  heaviest  footsteps  noiseless.  The  fine  old  bed 
is  of  noble  size,  with  unfaded  hangings,  and 
George  Rex  missed  some  delightful  nights'  rest 
in  it. 

We  were  cordially  welcomed  by  Mr.  Webber: 
the  name  sounds  German  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 


MITCHELSTOWN  CASTLE        375 

this  gentleman  is  the  scion  of  an  old  Irish  family. 
Charles  Lever  has  not  created  a  more  amusing 
character  than  Frank  Webber  in  Charles  O'Mal- 
ley.  Mr.  William  Downes  Webber  has  a  pretty 
taste  himself  in  literature,  and  possesses  a  large 
library  and  an  unique  history  of  Mexico.  He  has 
been  a  traveller  in  many  lands,  has  collected  many 
mementos,  and  is  a  remarkably  vigorous  gentle- 
man, rising  eighty,  but  still  walking  vigorously  and 
riding  on  horseback  in  the  early  morning.  He 
showed  us  through  the  rooms  and  even  the  base- 
ment which,  in  spite  of  the  humid  climate  of  Ire- 
land, is  perfectly  dry  and  light.  There  are  in- 
numerable kitchens,  still-rooms,  sculleries,  wine- 
cellars,  laundries,  drying-rooms,  plate-rooms,  and, 
in  fact,  space  for  every  conceivable  convenience  in 
keeping  a  great  house  clean  and  in  order. 

I  remember  when  visiting  Ashburnham  Place, 
Lord  Ashburnham  spoke  of  his  need  of  small 
rooms.  There  was  no  place  for  a  lonely  man  to 
sit  and  be  cosy;  for  the  library,  dining-room, 
drawing-rooms,  and  billiard-room  were  all  of  such 
vast  proportions  that  the  shadows  in  the  corners 
gave  one  quite  an  eerie  feeling.  The  Earl  of 
Kingston  has  provided  just  such  a  small,  com- 
plete house  in  one  wing  of  the  Castle ;  it  comprises 
a  moderate-sized  dining-room  and  library,  a  small 
boudoir,  cosy  bedrooms,  and  a  good  kitchen  and 
accommodation  for  a  limited  staff  of  servants. 


376  HERSELF— IRELAND 

Mr.  Webber  prefers  himself  to  live  in  the  Castle, 
but  he  sometimes  lends  this  suite  of  apartments 
to  friends  for  the  summer. 

The  Castle  is  built  upon  the  site  of  the  man- 
sion, which  was  once  surrounded  by  the  present 
beautiful  grounds;  the  high  wall  has  disappeared. 
There  are  many  romantic  stories  connected  with 
all  the  old  Irish  families,  but  none  more  thrilling 
than  the  elopement  of  Mary  King.  Her  father 
was  Robert,  second  Earl  of  Kingston,  and  he  mar- 
ried in  1769  the  only  daughter  of  Richard  Fitz- 
gerald, the  Squire  of  Mount  O'Phaly,  County 
Kildare. 

It  was  discovered  after  the  death  of  a  young 
brother  of  Lady  Kingston,  that  he  had  left  an 
illegitimate  son,  who  was  called  Henry  Fitzgerald. 
The  boy  was  so  beautiful  and  winning  that  when 
his  aunt  saw  him  she  constituted  herself  his  guard- 
ian and  decided  to  bring  him  up  with  her  own 
children.  And  he  not  only  won  her  heart,  but,  by 
his  persuasive  and  singular  charm,  he  conquered 
the  affections  of  the  whole  Kingston  family,  par- 
ticularly of  his  little  cousin  Mary,  a  child  who 
gave  promise  of.  being  a  great  beauty.  And,  be- 
side his  power  of  fascination,  Henry  Fitzgerald 
had  more  than  the  average  intellect.  Passing 
his  examinations  well,  he  entered  the  Army  at  the 
age  of  nineteen,  and  by  dash  and  courage  quickly 
rose  to  the  rank  of  Colonel.  With  a  tall,  hand- 


MITCHELSTOWN  CASTLE        377 

some  figure,  flashing  blue  eyes,  regular  features, 
and  a  witty  Irish  tongue,  he  captured  the  heart  of 
an  heiress,  married  her,  and  became  very  popular 
in  London  Society. 

In  the  meantime  his  little  cousin,  Mary  King, 
had  grown  up  a  remarkably  beautiful  girl  of  six- 
teen. She  could  have  been  cast  for  the  part  of 
Lady  Godiva,  for  her  splendid  curling  red  hair, 
reaching  below  her  ankles,  covered  her  like  a  royal 
mantle.  Her  eyes  were  black,  her  teeth  were 
pearl-white,  her  figure  was  charming,  and  her 
smile  was  said  to  be  enchanting.  Her  cousin,  re- 
garded by  the  family  as  a  son  and  brother,  had 
ample  opportunity  of  intimate  intercourse  with 
this  lovely  maiden,  who,  like  a  goddess,  was  the 
personification  of  health,  strength,  and  beauty,  and 
like  a  goddess  she  as  mysteriously  disappeared. 
Going  out  to  walk  upon  the  lawn  one  morning  she 
was  seen  no  more. 

There  were  a  thousand  theories  as  to  her  dis- 
appearance; gipsies  had  been  seen  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  it  was  thought  she  might  have  been 
abducted  and  forcibly  carried  away  to  be  a  gipsy 
queen.  But  the  gipsies  were  watched,  and  they 
seemed  quite  satisfied  with  their  own  swarthy 
ruler.  The  country  and  London  were  searched  by 
the  Earl  and  his  friends,  but  nothing  was  discov- 
ered. The  little  river  near  Mitchelstown  and  even 
the  Thames  was  dragged.  A  small  fortune  was 


378  HERSELF— IRELAND 

offered  in  reward  for  information  which  would 
lead  to  the  discovery,  in  life  or  death,  of  the  beau- 
tiful young  girl,  "  tall  and  slim,  with  brilliant  com- 
plexion, dark  eyes,  and  thick  braids  of  red  hair; " 
so  the  bills  described  her. 

But  not  even  a  rumour  reached  the  distracted 
parents ;  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  been  spirited  away 
by  black  magic,  so  complete  was  the  silence.  The 
Countess  of  Kingston  grew  pale  and  thin,  mourn- 
ing her  missing  daughter;  the  Earl  of  Kingston 
became  nervous  and  irritable  under  the  constant 
speculation  and  strain.  Finally,  the  family  left 
Mitchelstown  and  moved  nearer  London.  The 
police  came  and  went  almost  daily  to  the  house  to 
try  and  obtain  a  fresh  clue. 

During  all  this  time  Henry  Fitzgerald  was  un- 
remitting in  his  efforts  to  find  his  cousin.  He  was 
constantly  with  her  father.  He  helped  to  drag  the 
Thames.  He  continually  interviewed  the  detec- 
tives. He  was  always  hopeful  of  finding  the  girl, 
and  he  was  a  source  of  consolation  and  strength  to 
the  anguished  mother. 

At  length  some  uncertain  information  reached 
Lord  Kingston  which  made  him  hope  that  his 
daughter  was  still  alive.  The  post-boy  one  day 
informed  him  that  he  was  employed  by  a  stranger, 
a  handsome  gentleman,  to  drive  him  the  week 
before  to  London.  As  they  were  about  a  mile 
from  the  city,  they  overtook  a  beautiful  young 


MITCHELSTOWN  CASTLE        379 

lady  walking  on  the  road,  she  was  tall,  with  dark 
eyes,  and  splendid  braids  of  hair  which  stood  out 
like  a  halo  from  either  side  of  her  head.  The 
gentleman,  who  was  driving,  asked  if  she  was  going 
to  London,  and  she  said  yes.  The  gentleman  was 
then  mighty  civil,  and  said,  "  If  you  will  take  a 
seat,  Madam,  I  will  put  you  down  at  your  own 
door."  She  thanked  him,  and  entered  the  car- 
riage. When  they  got  as  far  as  Temple  Bar  he 
put  them  down  and  they  seemed  quite  friendly  and 
went  away  together.  The  gentleman  paid  him 
very  well.  The  description  answered  so  accurately 
to  Mary  King's  appearance  that  Lord  Kingston 
put  forth  fresh  efforts  to  find  his  daughter.  He 
spoke  to  Colonel  Fitzgerald,  who  seemed  deeply 
impressed  by  the  information,  but  there  was  no 
further  news  of  her,  and  but  for  her  singularly 
beautiful  rich  hair,  the  mystery  might  have  re- 
mained for  ever  unsolved. 

In  those  days  maidservants  read  very  little. 
And  some  of  them  could  not  read  at  all.  But  in 
the  lodging-house  where  Mary  King  lived  one  of 
them  seems  to  have  been  the  usual  sharp,  observant 
London  slavey.  She  placed  the  Honourable  Mary 
under  observation,  and  one  day,  unexpectedly 
entering  the  young  lady's  room,  she  saw  a  pair  of 
sharp  scissors  and  a  great  mantle  of  lovely  waving 
red  hair  lying  on  the  counterpane,  and  Mary  King 
in  short  curls  stood  weeping  by  the  bed.  The  maid 


380  HERSELF— IRELAND 

managed  to  secure  a  lock  of  this  wonderful  hair, 
and  with  it  she  journeyed  to  the  house  occupied 
by  the  Kingstons.  When  she  asked  for  the 
Countess  of  Kingston  it  was  with  such  mysterious 
assurance  that  the  butler  unhesitatingly  led  her 
to  the  Countess,  saying  the  young  woman  wanted 
to  see  her  on  a  matter  of  great  importance.  After 
the  door  of  the  boudoir  was  closed,  she  told  the 
story  of  the  beautiful  young  lady  who  lived  in  a 
lodging-house  in  Clayton  Street,  Kennington,  with 
her  husband,  a  very  handsome  and  distinguished 
gentleman.  He  had  brought  her  there  about  three 
weeks  before,  and  he  was  very  loving  to  her,  but 
was  sometimes  absent.  The  young  lady  would 
then  stand  looking  out  of  the  window  for  hours, 
weeping,  and  one  day  she  had  sobbed  aloud  and 
cut  off  all  her  beautiful  hair.  The  girl  then  handed 
the  long  red  curl  to  Lady  Kingston,  who  pressed  it 
to  her  heart,  almost  fainting. 

At  this  moment  Colonel  Fitzgerald  opened  the 
door  and  entered  the  room.  He  had  arrived  for 
one  of  his  usual  visits  of  sympathy  and  condolence. 
When  the  servant-maid  saw  him  she  divined  a 
tragedy,  and  rising  to  her  feet  made  a  dramatic 
gesture,  saying,  "  That  is  the  man,  my  lady." 
"No!  Oh,  my  God,  no!"  said  Lady  Kingston, 
and  fainted.  Frightened  and  confounded,  Colonel 
Fitzgerald  rushed  from  the  house.  He  was 
quickly  followed  by  Lord  and  Lady  Kingston, 


MITCHELSTOWN  CASTLE        381 

who  found  their  daughter  in  Kennington.  They 
were  able  to  persuade  her  to  start  at  once  with 
them  to  Mitchelstown.  The  girl  had  been  brought 
up  in  the  shadow  of  the  beautiful  Galtee  Moun- 
tains and  was  homesick  for  the  open-air  life  of 
Ireland.  She  was  only  sixteen,  and  no  young  girl 
of  that  age  has  a  realisation  of  the  grand  passion. 
Romance,  adventure,  many  things  may  appeal  to 
her,  but  not  an  abiding  love.  I  daresay  that  in  a 
short  time  she  was  forgetful,  quite  happy,  and 
properly  repentant,  but  according  to  the  manner  of 
the  times,  the  outraged  family  honour  required 
vindication.  Girls  of  the  present  day  protect  their 
own  honour.  In  the  eighteenth  century  men  did  it 
for  them. 

Robert  King,  Mary's  brother,  challenged 
Colonel  Fitzgerald  to  a  duel,  and  it  was  fought  in 
Hyde  Park — probably  near  the  Serpentine,  in  the 
early  morning  in  October,  1797.  The  two  young 
men  stood  under  the  splendid  trees,  only  ten  paces 
away  from  each  other.  Colonel  Fitzgerald  was 
alone,  as  he  had  not  been  able  to  find,  among  all 
his  fashionable  friends,  any  man  who  would  act 
as  his  second.  His  conduct  in  their  eyes,  and  in 
the  eyes  of  the  whole  world,  had  debarred  him  to 
all  claim  of  gentlemanhood.  These  cousins,  who 
had  been  brought  up  as  brothers,  no  doubt  were 
both  filled  with  emotion,  and  their  hands  were 
unsteady,  for  no  less  than  four  shots  were  fired 


382  HERSELF— IRELAND 

without  effect.  Perhaps,  in  spite  of  all  that  had 
happened,  neither  wished  to  kill  the  other.  When 
the  last  shot  went  astray,  Colonel  Fitzgerald  said 
quite  humbly: 

"  May  I  ask  advice  from  you,  Major  Wood,  as 
a  friend?"  Major  Wood  said,  "I  disclaim  any 
friendship  now  and  for  ever  with  you,  Colonel 
Fitzgerald,  but  if  you  acknowledge  your  base 
conduct,  the  affair  is  at  an  end."  Colonel  Fitz- 
gerald replied,  "  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  I  have 
acted  wrongly."  Major  Wood  was  not  satisfied 
with  so  tepid  an  apology.  The  duel  was  renewed, 
and  two  more  shots  were  exchanged  without  injury 
to  the  combatants.  Colonel  Fitzgerald,  having 
fired  all  the  powder  he  had  brought,  asked  Major 
Wood  to  supply  him  with  more,  or  to  allow  him 
the  use  of  one  of  Robert  King's  pistols.  Major 
Wood  declined  both  of  these  proposals,  and  said 
the  duel  would  have  to  be  renewed  the  next  morn- 
ing; but  the  police  got  wind  of  it  and  arrested  both 
the  young  men.  When  they  were  set  at  liberty, 
Colonel  Fitzgerald  travelled  incognito  to  Ireland, 
with  the  intention  of  persuading  Mary  King  to  a 
second  elopement,  and  he  went  to  live  in  the  little 
town  of  Mitchelstown,  which  is  not  far  from  the 
Castle.  Probably  the  hotel  that  stands  there  now 
was  the  veritable  inn  that  gave  him  hospitality. 

The  innkeeper  was  both  curious  and  suspicious 
about  his  distinguished  and  solitary  guest,  a  gen- 


MITCHELSTOWN  CASTLE        383 

tleman  in  manner  and  bearing,  who  knew  nobody 
in  the  neighbourhood,  and,  both  strong  and  active, 
shut  himself  up  in  his  room  by  day  and  only  ven- 
tured out  by  night. 

At  this  time  the  Kilworth  Mountains  were  the 
hiding-place  of  a  very  well-known  band  of  high- 
way robbers.  Captain  Brennan,  a  handsome,  reck- 
less dare-devil,  was  not  unlike  Colonel  Fitzgerald 
in  appearance;  and  it  was  a  natural  mistake  of  the 
innkeeper  to  tell  Lord  Kingston  that  he  was  sure 
he  harboured  under  his  roof  the  veritable  highway- 
man, for  whom  Lord  Kingston  in  command  of  the 
Yeomanry  was  searching.  The  anxious  father  in- 
stantly suspected  a  case  of  mistaken  identity,  and 
he  resolved  that  if  another  duel  was  fought,  it 
should  not  be  a  bloodless  encounter.  Seeing  Lord 
Kingston's  rage,  and  not  being  able  to  define  the 
reason,  the  innkeeper  betrayed  his  nervousness  to 
Colonel  Fitzgerald,  who  took  alarm  and  left 
Mitchelstown  for  Kilworth. 

It  was  evening  when  Lord  Kingston  and  his 
son,  Colonel  King,  arrived  at  the  hotel  in  Kil- 
worth. He  asked  whether  a  guest  had  arrived 
there  that  day,  and  was  told  that  a  handsome  gen- 
tleman had  just  gone  to  his  room.  Lord  King- 
ston sent  the  waiter  with  his  compliments  to  the 
unknown  guest,  and  said  he  wished  to  see  him  on  a 
matter  of  business.  The  door  was  locked,  and 
Colonel  Fitzgerald  did  not  open  it,  but  called  out 


384  HERSELF— IRELAND 

that  owing  to  the  late  hour  he  could  not  attend  to 
any  business.  Lord  Kingston  recognised  the 
seductive  voice  of  his  ungrateful  nephew,  and  he 
and  his  son  went  to  the  door  and  loudly  knocked, 
demanding  entrance.  There  was  silence,  but  the 
lock  was  weak,  it  yielded  to  pressure;  and  they 
rushed  into  the  bedroom  to  find  Colonel  Fitz- 
gerald dressed  and  armed  with  a  brace  of  pistols. 

Robert  King  seized  and  tried  to  disarm  him. 
The  two  men  were  clasped  in  a  silent,  death-like 
grip,  when  Lord  Kingston,  trembling  with  ex- 
citement, fired,  and  Fitzgerald  fell.  Dr.  Pigot, 
of  Kilworth,  was  sent  for,  but  could  do  nothing. 
And  Henry  Fitzgerald  only  lived  a  few  minutes. 
When  he  ceased  to  breathe  Lord  Kingston  rode 
like  the  wind  to  More  Park,  dismounted,  and 
sought  his  brother-in-law,  saying,  "  My  God,  I've 
killed  him!  I  don't  know  how  I  did  it.  But — 
oh,  I  most  sincerely  wish  it  had  been  by  another 
hand  than  mine."  He  then  offered  to  take  his 
trial. 

Bills  of  indictment  were  prepared  and  put  be- 
fore a  grand  jury,  which  was  composed  of  gentle- 
men of  the  highest  rank.  The  Earl  of  Kingston 
and  his  son  Robert  were  charged  with  the  crime  of 
murder.  Subsequently,  the  Indictment  formed  at 
the  Cork  Spring  Assizes  was  moved  by  certiorarl 
to  the  High  Court  of  Parliament,  in  order  that  the 
Earl  should  be  tried  by  his  Peers.  On  the  18th 


MITCHELSTOWN  CASTLE        385 

of  May,  1798,  the  House  of  Lords  in  Dublin  ac- 
quitted him,  there  being  no  evidence  to  sustain 
the  Indictment.  Robert  King  and  John  Harvey, 
a  friend,  who  were  with  him  the  night  of  the  mur- 
der, were  tried  by  Petty  Jury.  They  were  ac- 
quitted, for  no  witnesses  could  be  brought  forward 
to  sustain  the  prosecution. 

Probably  Colonel  Henry  Fitzgerald's  friends 
could  more  easily  have  forgiven  his  elopement  with 
Mary  King  of  the  beautiful  hair — for  well  could 
the  reckless  man  have  said,  "  And  she  strangled 
my  soul  in  a  mesh  of  her  gold-coloured  hair  " — 
than  his  unforgivable  sin,  black  hypocrisy. 

When  one  thinks  of  his  daily  visits  to  the 
Countess ;  his  frank  demeanour  to  Lord  Kingston, 
and  his  constant  interviews  with  the  detectives, 
shooting  seems  too  good  for  him. 

His  wife,  who  apparently  sank  into  an  early 
insignificance,  I  hope  was  consoled  by  a  more 
honourably  minded  gentleman,  after  her  husband's 
timely  death. 

Mary  King's  story  had  an  unexpected  and  con- 
ventional ending,  not  at  all  in  accord  with  her 
dramatic  debut.  For  she  neither  ran  away  a 
second  time,  nor  did  she  go  on  the  stage.  She  went 
instead  to  England,  under  the  name  of  one  of  the 
collateral  branches  of  her  family,  and  lived  with 
the  widow  of  a  clergyman  of  the  established 
Church  of  Wales.  This  lady  was  the  head  of  the 


386  HERSELF— IRELAND 

house  of  her  son,  a  young  clergyman,  who  must 
have  been  a  man  of  parts,  as  he  possessed  a  com- 
fortable living.  He  seems  conveniently  devoid  of 
curiosity,  for  he  knew  nothing,  nor  did  he  ask 
anything,  about  the  enchanting  being,  gifted  with 
charm,  a  lovely  person,  and  an  eloquent  Irish 
tongue,  who  was  living  under  his  roof. 

Mary  King  missed  her  true  vocation  in  not 
becoming  an  actress,  as  her  sense  of  drama  is 
undeniable.  Like  Wilkie  Collins's  New  Magdalen, 
she  was  moved  to  make  a  thrilling  confession,  say- 
ing that  she  had  been  reading  a  book — she  did  not 
add  that  it  was  a  book  of  life — and  in  appealing 
tones,  with  suppressed  emotion,  she  revealed  her 
wrong,  her  flight,  her  discovery,  her  return  to  her 
beloved  mountains,  and  her  final  repentance.  The 
cleric  was  deeply  moved  at  her  convincing  recital, 
and  at  the  psychological  moment  she  fervently  ex- 
claimed, "  Behold,  I  am  the  Woman." — And  a 
very  considerable  woman  she  was,  especially  for  a 
clergyman  to  tackle.  However,  he  must  have  felt 
himself  equal  to  the  task,  although  at  the  moment, 
he  is  described  as  being  naturally  shocked.  But 
Mary  King  had  been  a  very  young  Magdalen. 
Her  eyes  were  very  bright,  and  her  voice  was  very 
sweet.  He  said,  what  man  has  said  from  time 
immemorial  to  beautiful  woman  under  like  cir- 
cumstances,— and  what  he  will  say  ever  again, 
— that,  "  She  was  more  sinned  against  than 


MITCHELSTOWN  CASTLE        387 

sinning."     Long  red  hair  is  a  valuable  asset  for 
a   sinner. 

Her  spiritual  adviser  so  greatly  pitied  that  it 
did  not  take  him  long  to  forgive, — nor  to  love 
her.  He  desired  to  compensate  her  for  all  she 
had  suffered,  and,  as  an  honourable  gentleman, 
offered  her  the  protection  of  his  hand,  which  she 
gratefully  accepted,  and  became  after  marriage  a 
most  devoted  wife  and  mother,  and  an  exemplary 
parson's  lady.  Thus  the  thrilling  romance  of  a 
three-volume  novel  ended  unexpectedly  in  a  peace- 
ful rectory  in  Wales. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR 

THE  Irish  say,  "The  first  thread  is  not  of  the 
piece,"  so  I  have  given  myself  time  enough 
in  Ireland  for  the  weaving  of  threads.  Three 
American  naval  officers  stationed  in  Queenstown, 
were  talking  to  me  to-day.  One  of  them  said  the 
best  book  on  China  was  written  by  a  man  who  had 
never  been  in  it.  This  may  be  possible  of  China, 
but  it  could  not  be  true  of  Ireland.  There  are  so 
many  misrepresentations  of  the  country,  the  cli- 
mate, and  the  people,  that  to  form  a  correct  judg- 
ment each  individual  must  see  for  himself.  I 
have  lived  in  Ireland  considerably  over  a  year  now, 
and  I  can  only  speak  of  the  people  as  I  have 
found  them:  agreeable,  obliging,  and  easy  to  get 
along  with.  And  reliable?  Quite  as  reliable  as 
any  other  nationality,  for  as  Josh  Billings  said, 
when  some  one  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  the 
French  people,  "  Human  nature  generally  pre- 
vails." Sometimes  it  is  more,  sometimes  it  is  less, 
and  in  a  different  manner — but  it  prevails,  until 
we  go  Up  or  Down,  as  the  case  may  be. 

I  have  travelled  a  good  deal,  and  in  my  opinion 
the  two  nations  the  least  greedy  for  money  are  the 
Norwegians  and  the  Irish.  And  Ireland  offers  to 
those  of  moderate  income  almost  every  advantage. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  389 

Life  in  the  country  is  most  agreeable.  Horses 
are  good;  labour  is  cheap;  vegetables  and  flowers 
are  easily  raised;  and  people  are  not  straining 
every  nerve  to  dress  fashionably  and  live  with 
extravagance  of  detail;  health,  neighbour liness, 
an  outing  now  and  then,  this  constitutes  their 
happiness. 

And  Dublin  is  pre-eminently  a  comfortable 
place  to  live.  Large  enough  for  independence  of 
thought  and  action,  and  small  enough  to  have  peo- 
ple humanly  interested  in  one's  welfare.  The  old 
Georgian  houses  with  their  beautiful  front  doors, 
fanlights,  stucco,  ornamentations,  and  fine  mantel- 
pieces are  to  be  had  at  a  low  rental,  or  there  are 
small  houses  in  Rathmines  or  elsewhere  of  de- 
cided prepossessing  individuality.  A  little  grey 
house  in  Wellington  Place,  with  two  tall  chim- 
neys, looks  like  a  fairy  godmother's  house;  there 
are  raspberry  bushes  and  a  cherry  tree  in  the  gar- 
den, and  I  envy  the  occupants  of  it.  The  wages  of 
servants  are  very  moderate.  The  markets  are 
good.  "  Little  dressmakers  "  are  excellent,  and 
the  Sisters  of  Charity  do  exquisite  needlework  and 
embroidery.  If  fashionable,  smart  society  is  de- 
sired there  is  the  Castle,  the  Viceroy,  the  officials 
about  him,  and  the  "  Castle  set " ;  if  literary  so- 
ciety is  the  preference,  there  are  the  intellectuals 
who  talk  brilliantly  and  write  brilliant  books. 
Dublin  is  small  enough  to  avoid  fatigue,  as  the  li- 


390  HERSELF— IRELAND 

braries,  the  picture  galleries,  and  the  shops  are 
within  walking  distance  of  each  other.  It  rains 
a  good  deal,  but  the  rain  from  silvery  skies  is 
light  and  soft;  the  air  is  pure,  and  there  are  no 
fogs.  During  the  whole  of  last  winter  it  was  never 
necessary  to  resort  to  artificial  light  during  the 
day.  The  blackness  and  gloom  of  London  are  quite 
unknown  here. 

And  any  one  with  a  liking  for  pictures,  old 
mirrors  and  glass,  enamels  and  china,  old  furni- 
ture, and  old  prints  can  make  a  collection  in  Dub- 
lin to  better  financial  advantage  than  in  London. 
Ireland  is  by  no  means  exhausted  of  treasures  in 
art.  Quite  recently  a  picture  was  sold  in  Galway 
for  a  few  pounds  which  afterwards  realised  three 
thousand  in  the  English  market.  At  the  sale  of  an 
unpretentious  country  mansion,  the  old  silver,  and 
Waterford  glass  on  a  moderate  sized  dining-table 
was  estimated  at  being  worth  six  thousand  pounds. 
In  Irish  country  houses  there  are  pictures  by 
Romney,  Reynolds,  and  Hugh  Hamilton — the  dis- 
tinguished Irish  artist — Gainsborough,  Battoni, 
Kneller,  Amigoni,  Van  Scorel,  Mignard,  and  other 
of  the  immortals. 

Professor  William  Magennis  has  made  his  fine 
collection  entirely  in  Dublin;  among  his  pictures 
are  examples  of  Lely,  Rubens,  Fra^ois,  Boucher, 
Carlo  Dulci,  Caspar,  Poussin,  Van  Artois,  Van 
Uden,  Teniers,  Jannsen,  and  a  number  of  the 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  391 

best-known  Irish  painters,  among  them  Bingham 
Guinness,  who  is  popular  in  America,  Edwin 
Hayes,  and  Collis  Watkins.  If  after  buying  an 
old  picture  restoration  is  necessary,  Sir  Hugh  Lane 
said  there  was  no  one  better  than  Nairn,  whose 
father  and  grandfather  were  artists  before  him. 
Personally,  my  Irish  year  has  been  a  pleasant 
and  profitable  one;  the  friends  I  have  made  have 
been  kind — I  could  not  have  written  Herself — 
Ireland  without  their  help.  The  extraordinary 
memory  and  intelligent  suggestions  of  Professor 
William  Magennis  have  been  of  especial  value  to 
me.  And  I  have  tested  the  worth  of  friendship 
by  last  winter  getting  a  poisonous  attack  of  com- 
municable influenza  and  lavishly  distributing  it  to 
my  visitors,  but  they  generously  forgave  me.  I 
was  rather  ill  for  some  weeks,  and  found  it  possible 
to  do  without  a  nurse,  from  the  constant  care  and 
attention  which  was  ungrudgingly  given  me  in  the 
Shelbourne  Hotel.  When  I  go  away  from  Ireland 
I  shall  be  sorry  to  say  good-bye,  and  it  will  warm 
my  heart  to  return  again  to  these  kindly  people 
and  green  shores.  But — who  knows — perhaps  I 
shall  not  say  good-bye! 

THE  SHELBOURNE  HOTEL, 
August  1st,  1917. 

THE  END 


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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


JUL15I91H 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACIL 


•    -  <  A     000  033  024     1 

*2£ 


